


How To Not Say Goodbye

by Languidly



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Multi, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:55:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languidly/pseuds/Languidly
Summary: “What plot is this?!” the Drulian interjected shrilly. “You have offered up this murderer for our judgment - to be sentenced to execution or life imprisonment - and suddenly he is unfit for either?! This is surely too convenient!”“I apologize - what?” Magnus said belatedly.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 176
Kudos: 383





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Starts directly after the scene in Lost Light #25 where Rodimus pays Megatron one last visit.
> 
> And the title is, of course, a play on the canon chapter name "How To Say Goodbye & Mean It".

As they moved into the large lift that would take them towards the central tower where the sentencing chamber was located, the memory of Rodimus’ haunted, pale blue optics wouldn’t leave. 

There was a turbulent roiling in Megatron’s chest that felt out of place. He had long been certain of his end, secure in the knowledge that he would finally find peace either in being offlined or being put to the sensationless, murky incognizance that would come with being locked to a mobius generator. He was so tired. More than ready for oblivion. 

Somewhere along the way, things had changed. Now his spark wouldn’t stop stuttering, and his processor couldn’t stop conjuring up the heat that was Rodimus’ body from astrominutes before. Knees bumping against his, yellow fingers skating lightly on Megatron’s hand when the badge had passed between them, the trembling that started minutely in the red and orange frame that had swelled to an outright shudder as Ultra Magnus had entered the cell to take Megatron to his doom. Megatron had pointedly avoided any further contact, any other words that might have incriminated Rodimus. On board the Lost Light on their final adventure - and how long ago had that been? - their first time together sharing their selves had also been their last; Megatron would not drag Rodimus down any further. 

He’d made sure to confine the distant memory of the blazing heat that had marked their brief spark-merge to a thrice-locked file, and buried it deep in the fragmented threads of his processor. It’d been foolish of him to give in, but Rodimus had touched him with such heated certainty and beseeched him so strongly without words that Megatron had not been able to deny him. Megatron remembered that his own spark had been weak and flickering next to his co-captain’s, which had burned as bright and hot as a star. He supposed it was an accurate reflection of what they were - Megatron’s body battered by the frontlines of war and remade with broken parts, while Rodimus had all the strength and power and grace conferred by his tenure as a Prime. Why such a mech had decided to forgive him and open up to him, Megatron would never know. He didn’t want to think more about it. There was nothing more he could give to anyone else, nothing more he could do.

The churning worsened as they stepped out of the lift, and Megatron had to fight the futile urge to laugh. Was he to be afraid at the end after all? Did he want absolution? More time, just to live in peace, when he had no right to that?

His field must have betrayed him because Magnus’ hand clamped down on his shoulder, warm and steady. The guards flanking the way didn’t look directly at him, but their presence was stifling regardless. Even so, it was only a shadow of the judgment that awaited him at the end of that long, long corridor. Every step took him further away from the flame that had warmed him in these last days, edging him towards the brink of a cold and depthless abyss instead.

The heavy doors swung open and Magnus dropped his hand. A flash of grief coursed through Megatron’s frame, its source feeling far away and cut off almost as quickly as it’d come. His spark lurched again, and for all its weakness seemed to throb. He tried to straighten up, to walk without hesitation into the middle of the room where Prowl already stood waiting-

His knees locked up as his HUD began throwing up red lines of error codes. Processing power was diverting, pulling away from his motor and cognitive functions, feeding relentlessly towards his center; with the stasis cuffs, there wasn’t a lot to go around. He could feel himself starting to sway and Magnus’ hands coming up again automatically to support him, alarm spiking in his former second’s field as the room began to rustle around them. 

And then an agonizing surge pulsed through his spark and he gasped before he could stop himself. It felt like being ripped in two. He was collapsing, his dead weight too much for even Magnus to hold completely, and Megatron’s last thought before his optics dimmed was that it was a shame his shattered body had not even lasted long enough for his sentence to be meted out. 

***

When Megatron came online again, it was with static scratching fuzzily at the corners of his HUD. He was back in his cell, propped up in a corner, and his stasis cuffs had been replaced with something blocky and almost-painfully heavy, weighing his hands to the ground. A direct fuel line was trailing from his side, filled with viscous medical-grade energon, along with two other thin cables - were those power lines? He tried to move, to work his intake, but his vocalizer hadn’t rebooted along with his processor and nothing came out.

There was a scuffling sound across from him and Megatron would have lifted his head to look, except that every part of his body seemed to have been melted down and turned unyieldingly solid.

“Hey,” it was a gruff voice. One that he knew. “Welcome back, Captain.”

Ratchet.

Searching his logs for a link between what he remembered last and his current situation was taking far longer than it should have. Megatron would have growled, frustrated by the weakness, if he’d been able to do so. He...yes, he’d been on the way to the sentencing chamber, about to enter the room. Magnus had been there. What had happened? Why had he been brought back here? Had the sentence been handed down? It would be so perfectly Autobot to refuel a prisoner right before they executed him.

He tried cycling his vocalizer again, and this time, a thin charge flickered through. Not enough to articulate a question, unfortunately.

Ratchet’s pedes came into view, before the medic knelt by his side and lifted Megatron’s chin briskly. He had a scanner in the other hand, and he ran it with practiced ease down Megatron’s body, muttering under his breath as he peered at Megatron’s optics and turned his helm back and forth. Megatron wished Ratchet would stop. Even the dim lights of the cell felt uncomfortably harsh and his vision was still blurry. Every movement created a dizzying strobe effect that made his fuel tank squeeze unhappily.

“So,” Ratchet said at last. “You’re probably wondering what’s going on.”

Megatron would have smiled if he could. He didn’t need Ratchet to tell him that his body was breaking down, if not already gone to the Pit. Would it be wise to ask how long he had left? Not that he would be spending it anywhere besides this cell, but it was strangely...comforting, to see a familiar face again. He’d not been able to say farewell to all of the crew - a good many had seemed to be avoiding him with downcast faces at the end. Perhaps they were still unable to reconcile what he had been with what he had become. Megatron could scarcely do it himself most days, after all.

He heard Ratchet exvent, a harsh and weary sound. Then he said brusquely and simply, “You’re sparked.”

The words echoed in the dead silence of the cell. 

Megatron’s fingers curled slowly. 

It...wasn’t possible. How- when- what? 

Against all the precautions he’d taken, his sluggish processor threw up an image: white faceplates and light blue optics framed by yellow and red. Lying side by side, wrist ports open and cables hesitantly plugged in. Wave after wave of blind seeing, of shared understanding, of walking each other’s paths and feeling the immense weight of an immeasurable pain and joy and loss and light. _Rodimus_ , who had turned to Megatron after that trust had been given and reciprocated, who had slowly raised a hand to Megatron’s helm and softly cupped his face, who had opened his chest with a fierce need and an unspoken emotion blasting so unreservedly through his EM field that Megatron had shuttered his optics and opened himself up, aching to give something in return…

But his own spark was whittled down, almost to nothing. It shouldn’t have been possible. Megatron did not have the strength of spark or frame for what had happened. 

Ratchet shifted to sit next to him, setting the scanner down. He was shaking his head, still exventing in small huffs but clearly not going anywhere. After a while, the old medic began speaking again, grim and low.

“The spark must have split from yours at the time that you entered the sentencing chamber. The process takes plenty of power, though it’s usually nothing significant for a well-fueled carrier. However, you had been confined, with only the barest rations-” and here Ratchet’s voice rose to almost a snarl, “-and put in stasis cuffs, which drained most of the power from your systems, and on top of all of that, your spark has been weakened by all of your reframes and Shockwave’s meddling, and you, Megatron, you’re an _idiot_ if you hadn’t thought to check- ”

He managed a short croak of laughter at that, and Ratchet’s head whipped around sharply to glare at him. Whether the laughter held more hysteria than amusement, Megatron didn’t know, but now his fingers were curling harder with all their shakiness into his palms and his frame was starting to slide. He landed on Ratchet’s shoulder with a dull clang. 

The medic visibly bit down on whatever else he had been going to say and settled grumpily, carefully shifting around so that Megatron’s helm was supported against his own. “I insisted that the cuffs be swapped out, and Optimus himself agreed that high-grade fuel and auxiliary power lines were appropriate in this situation. I’ve had to slow the input so that your systems don’t crash, you were _that_ low. And of course so stoic that you never said a thing,” this last was shot at him, darkly. “So it’ll be a while yet before your frame recovers enough that you’ll be able to be brought forward for questioning or sentencing. That damned committee is not getting you back in that chamber before I say it’s a go. And in case your processor is still addled, you realize the first question they’ll ask - that everyone’s already asking - is who the sire is, so I sure as slag hope you have an answer.”

***

Rodimus had made it almost all the way to the other side of the city before Magnus’ ping hit his comms. He’d transformed the moment he left the jail, sped away as if he could outrun the darkness that was going to happen behind him. He’d stopped as the glittering coast of the Rust Sea rose into view. The anguish had hit him at some point during his mad rush, but he’d pushed it down immediately because they’d already said their goodbyes, and Rodimus would just have to deal with never seeing Megatron again now that the chapter of their lives aboard the Lost Light was over. If his hands trembled and his spark couldn’t stop skittering, well, that was an issue to be examined at another time.

But now he had to be dreaming. Because Magnus was still speaking in that grave and formal way that he always did, saying things like, “-sentencing has been postponed” and “-not sure when the committee will convene again.” Magnus also sounded oddly distracted, and it was only then that Rodimus heard some of the other things that were being said, the chief words being “special circumstances.”

“Hold up, Mags,” he cut in, and he was proud of himself for the way that his voice was controlled, not a tremor in it. “Are you saying Megatron has been granted a reprieve?”

Magnus grunted at him. “Yes. For now.” Which was enough, because Rodimus’ spark had all but started to thunder in his audials, almost drowning the rest of Magnus’ sentence out. “But he’s not well, Rodimus. You and I have been summoned to provide more information. We will perhaps be asked to explain- ”

“I’ll be right there,” he promised, cutting the line and whirling about. His frame felt light, as though he’d just been retrofitted with new racing panels in the thinnest steel. A giddy headiness was rising in parallel in his processor as he transformed into his alt mode and gunned his engines. 

He’d be able to see Megatron again. Talk to him, and hear that dry sarcasm in return. He’d be able to reach out and _touch_ him on the shoulder, one more time.

It _was_ a dream, one that Rodimus hadn’t even known he’d had. A dream come true.

By the time he’d hurtled back into the compound, Magnus was there, seated and waiting. There was a troubled glint to his optics, but Rodimus was too keyed up to care much. “Mags! Are ya ready for some serious committee-wrangling?” He would have blown past Magnus entirely, if the larger mech had not reached out and caught his arm.

“Rodimus,” Magnus looked at him evenly. “This is a committee put together by the _Galactic Council_. We’ll have to be careful what we say. Please, think before you speak, if only for Megatron’s sake.”

Rodimus patted Magnus’ hand absently. “Think before speak, will do.” He wondered if they would be able to get his former co-captain out, perhaps on some kind of parole.

Magnus was still speaking, low and urgent, though he’d stood and released Rodimus’ arm. “Ratchet was called in, but I haven’t been able to comm him since he was brought here. Either the Council is blocking communications, or Ratchet himself thinks there is a problem he can’t speak to us about. Both are not good scenarios, Rodimus.”

Rodimus stopped. “Do you think-” and the words felt strangely jumbled, as he finally took in what Magnus was saying. “Do you think Megs is dy- sick? Really sick?”

His former second shuttered his optics. “Certainly we shall soon find out.”

They strode together towards the central building. Past the grand gilded doors, guards snapped to attention. Magnus nodded in acknowledgement at them, weaving his way up three levels holding a ridiculous number of near-identical doors with swift familiarity - he’d been here almost every other day as Megatron’s defence council. Rodimus eyed each door with some trepidation, as if the committee could be hiding behind any of them.

They finally stopped before a different set of doors, these ornate and heavy. Magnus glanced once more at Rodimus before stepping over to the large keypad on the left, punching in his authorization code.

They were greeted with utter chaos.

Rodimus recognized the organic diplomats from Drul and Kathexis first - it was hard to forget such a neon orange hue, and that three-mawed head - one was snapping at the other, while a tall purple wisp hovered wringing almost-translucent spindly hands near them. Two gray-green Nebulons were chittering fiercely to each other, and on the other side, Prowl was gesticulating wildly to Optimus, who appeared to be bearing the tirade with quickly-fraying patience, if the closed battle-mask was anything to go by. Several chairs on the raised level of the room had been knocked over.

Magnus gaped, and Rodimus could almost hear the tension as the larger mech’s spinal strut snapped in automatic outrage. “What- what in Primus’ name is going on here?!” he breathed.

Optimus noticed them at that moment, rising to his feet. Prowl followed his Prime’s gaze, spinning around to glare hotly and beckoning them over with an almost-rude gesture.

“Order!” a gold-glimmered serpentine scalehorn was standing in the middle of the room, winding up from the ground and flaring its hoods so that it caught everyone’s attention. Its voice was hypnotic, low and musical and somehow cutting through the general noise with ease. “Fellow ambassadors, judges, the Cybertronian witnesses are here. Let us hope they may answer our questions satisfactorily.”

There was an abrupt shuffling about as places were taken, before the chatter died down and Rodimus suddenly found himself on the end of several restless, suspicious looks. Prowl had left Optimus and was making his way back to the center of the room where a square block had been raised a step. Magnus hesitated a nanoklik before walking up to it.

“State your designation for the record,” Prowl had tamped down on his agitation, but the barest trace of it continued to swirl in his tightly-held field. 

“Ultra Magnus, former second-in-command of the Autobot ship Lost Light, now Orator for the Defense for Megatron of Tarn.” He inclined his helm at all of them. “Respected ambassadors,” and Rodimus almost laughed at how Magnus stressed the words, optics flitting over the mess of the room with a barely-concealed twitch, “How may I be of service?”

There was a heavy pause wherein Prowl continued to glower, but it was the serpentine scalehorn who regarded Magnus and finally spoke, still in that sibilant voice. 

“Ultra Magnus. The Aubobot medic who was called - and who Optimus has assured us is above any and all falsity - has returned to us a preliminary diagnosis of the war criminal Megatron. We understand that he is carrying a youngling - or as your race puts it, that he is _sparked_. We of the committee have a need to know of the circumstances of how this came to be-”

“What plot is this?!” the Drulian interjected shrilly. “You have offered up this murderer for our judgment - to be sentenced to execution or life imprisonment - and suddenly he is unfit for either?! This is surely too convenient!”

“I apologize - what?” Magnus said belatedly.

“It is perhaps too premature to call it a youngling,” one of the Nebulons said sourly. “I understand that a Cybertronian requires both this spark we speak of and also a physical form to be integrated before it becomes a viable offspring. Should the criminal’s sentence be carried out swiftly, the spark becomes no matter at all.”

Optimus’ optics flashed. “Ambassador R-carri. As I have endeavored to explain earlier, a spark is still the beginning of a Cybertronian life. All of our worlds have been ravaged by war these millions of years. That we seek now to join the Galactic Council is because we recognize through the unconscionable losses of the battlefield that _all_ life is precious. How could any of the Council, in good conscience, end an innocent one?”

“-what?” Magnus repeated.

“Perhaps it would be prudent to postpone the sentencing until we can question Megatron himself again,” the purple wisp offered, still wringing its translucent hands. “We, ah, agree with Optimus Prime. It is a youngling that has done no wrong.”

“Did the medic not also say that the new spark appeared weak?” the other Nebulon mused. “If left naturally, it might not survive anyway?”

Even from across the room, the heat in Optimus’ optics was apparent, though he comported himself with his usual dignity. “Should this committee see fit to postpone Megatron’s sentence, then we will naturally avail all our resources to the preservation of the new spark.”

“And by extension preserve Megatron’s spark!” the Drulian shrieked.

“Ultra Magnus,” the serpentine scalehorn was expressionless, though the narrowing of its silver eyes might have spoken of impatience, “During the Lost Light travels, did the criminal meet with other members of the new Decepticon high command? Despite his most recent allegiance, one could imagine that the other progenitor of this spark would be such.”

“If the new spark should be extinguished, and if it _were_ belonging to Decepticon leadership,” the Kathexian observed mildly, “Could it not be construed by them as an invitation from the Galactic Council itself to restart the war?”

“It is not like the Decepticons have ever ended it,” R-carri snapped.

“I- no,” Magnus said.

“Perhaps if it were yours, Optimus Prime,” the younger Nebulon spread its gloved hands mockingly, “A Prime’s offspring, surely, would put this discussion to end.”

Optimus pinched the top of his nasal ridge. “It is not,” he answered shortly. “I have never- I would not- ”

“It’s mine.” 

Magnus froze. He turned, slowly, to look at the flame-red frame moving to stand beside him.

“It’s mine,” Rodimus repeated clearly, his voice ringing through the room, which had lapsed into a stunned silence. This close, Magnus could feel his former captain’s field, awash in wonder and shock, a glow of determination and recklessness. “And _I_ was a Prime, before.”


	2. Chapter 2

Magnus was caught by a sudden, wholly-familiar urge to strangle Rodimus.

“I want to see him,” Rodimus stated, as the entire committee stared at him.

Prowl recovered first. “Absolutely not!” he hissed. “You are now complicit in this, and you _will_ be arrested and interrogated!”

Rodimus shrugged and Magnus’ fingers convulsed on empty air at the conveyed flippancy. “Arrest, Prowl? We were Autobot co-captains on an Autobot vessel, fulfilling an Autobot Command-sanctioned mission. I turned Megatron over to you after our quest ended and agreed to let my ship be decommissioned. I was not aware that any private activities were to be regulated. Have I disregarded any orders?”

Prowl looked as though he wanted to laser-cut through Rodimus with optics alone. “Not _explicit_ orders, no,” he growled, “But it is a fact that you knew Megatron would be coming back to face the council- ”

“I didn’t know - I don’t think he knew, either - that he could be sparked,” Rodimus admitted, and there was just the slightest heat radiating off his faceplates. The honesty was somewhat tempered by a rueful flash of dentae. “We’re not...we’re not _together_ or anything. It was just...saying goodbye.”

Magnus dropped his helm into one hand with a low groan. He noted distantly that Optimus was doing almost the same thing on the other side of the room, if a little less obviously. The furious whispers were back, rising steadily in pitch as chairs were shoved together.

The serpentine scalehorn considered Rodimus thoughtfully, then cocked its golden head and beckoned him forward. “We have seen you here before as a witness. But for the record, your designation, Cybertronian?”

Rodimus turned away from Prowl, who was still impotent with fury. “Your Excellency, Rodimus of Nyon at your service. I was co-captain with Megatron on board the Lost Light.”

“You say you were a Prime?”

Rodimus made to shrug again but then visibly caught himself and nodded instead. “I was chosen to carry the Matrix of Leadership for a time. Optimus can vouch for that. Hey, even Prowl can.”

From behind, Prowl sounded as though he was choking on his own vents.

“And you are saying that this situation with the war criminal was...wholly unplanned?”

Rodimus chuckled self-deprecatingly. “Your Excellency, ask anyone who knows me. Making a plan for the next _orn_ is already stretching my inclinations, let alone anything of a longer nature.”

The Kathexian regarded him distrustfully. “And you were not entrapped into this, somehow? Perhaps you were deceived by the murderer to sire a youngling in order that he might escape his punishment. Think back carefully, if you would?”

Rodimus laughed outright at that, though it sounded hollow, and Magnus fought a flinch at the sound. “It was my- I requested the interface and initiated the spark-merge, Ambassador,” and here Magnus had to force himself not to immediately wipe the information and the image it conjured up in his processor, “He tried to talk me out of it, but I wanted to know him. All of him, before we parted for what I had assumed would be for the last time.”

“He was a _very_ good co-captain, then,” one of the Nebulons said snidely. Rodimus’ gaze flickered up, and Magnus realized suddenly that they were about two nanokliks away from the only thing that could possibly make the situation worse: a committee member electrocuted by a photon eliminator.

“Megatron was a model captain of the Lost Light,” he jumped in hastily, covering Rodimus’ hand in what he hoped was an unobtrusive action. “He conducted himself with the utmost discipline and good faith, followed all protocols, and more than once he stood in front of our crew to save them from untoward consequences. Speaking not as Megatron’s Orator but as his former second-in-command, I assure you all - on my honor - that he behaved in as fitting a manner as one could hope for as an official representative of the Autobots during our quest. If- if he is sparked,” his vocalizer warbled slightly on the word, but Magnus ignored it, “I cannot imagine that he would have planned it on purpose. I personally have no doubts whatsoever that Megatron has truly reformed himself. ”

The elder Nebulon waved all of it away with a tired sigh. “Yes, as you have duly informed us on multiple occasions during this trial. R-carri, do desist.”

The purple wisp - the Furlian ambassador - had been staring at Rodimus all this time, and now he spread his spindly many-fingered hands out in front of him. “The Cybertronian does not lie. We sense no duplicity in his aura, at least with regards to this.” This last was deliberately uttered, and Magnus noticed as Rodimus stilled oddly.

“It is good to hear that,” the serpentine scalehorn said gently, drawing their attention back. “Now,” and it raised its hood again, flaring slightly and looking pointedly around at the rest of the committee members, “We have identified the other progenitor, and established that this has happened by accident rather than design. We must deliberate. Prowl, do escort your witnesses out. We will of course not dictate how you might hold them as they are your citizens, but it would be convenient to have them close at hand should this committee have further questions.”

***

Megatron had slipped into recharge without noticing, and his chronometer said that it had been several hours since he’d last been online. He could tell that he was no longer propped up in the corner on the ground, but had been laid out on a narrow berth that was just slightly too small instead. A whole-systems check began to run automatically on his HUD, but he didn’t need to see the results to know that he was feeling better - that heavy weakness in his limbs had subsided and his fuel tank was the fullest it had been in orns. His spark still ached slightly, but his optics, vocalizer and other autonomic functions were booting up smoothly, and there was an old, if artificial, long-forgotten power coursing through his circuitry.

A proximity alert sprang up. He wasn’t alone.

His optics gleamed online, and he was greeted by the sight of Ratchet, red and white helm on his forearms and dozing in a light recharge by his side. The medic looked exhausted, a small frown on his face even in rest. Megatron took in the portable medical berth that had been squeezed into his cell, the two large dispensers of medical grade energon by the wall, and the auxiliary power slab that almost scraped the ceiling. He had truly been ill, then-

His processor booted up completely, and the memory of what Ratchet had said flooded back into the forefront.

He’d been sparked. He’d been _sparked_.

Hearing and accepting were different things. Megatron let the knowledge sink in slowly, and tried to feel the truth of it. 

His war had led Cybertron to the brink of extinction and now, somehow, there was a new life, pulsing fitfully inside his broken internals. He was doomed - and likely still was - but in the thick of the pain and regret and against all the odds, a tiny glimmer of salvation had come to him. Had he only had an inkling before, would he have resisted submitting himself to the Galactic Council for judgment at the time?

The panels over his chest suddenly felt deadly cold, as if they were being bathed in freezing coolant. Would his executioners terminate the new spark along with his?

And Rodimus. Would he, too, be taken to task for the trust and sentiment that he had shown Megatron? Would he be labeled as a traitor once they found out that he was the one who had-

“If you’re going to panic, I’d appreciate if you wake me before you actually do,” Ratchet snapped, and Megatron realized belatedly that his spark-pulse had increased and that he was exventing harder than usual, all of which was setting off softly-beeping alerts on the monitor that he was hooked up to. He calmed himself with an effort, trying not to think, but his processor was already firmly throwing up probabilities and branches of worst-case scenarios in a mimicry of battle strategy, even though there was no clear goal beyond _Keep the sparkling alive._

“Ratchet,” his voice was hoarse with disuse, his grip on the medic’s arm hard enough to slightly dent. “Ratchet, are they going to take- ”

“No one is taking you or the new spark anywhere,” Ratchet growled. “If you want to keep it, they’ll have to offline me before they get to you.”

The statement almost threw Megatron’s logic processing into a loop. If he wanted to keep it..? 

Of course. He didn’t _have_ to keep the sparkling. He could release it, and it would be as though it had never been. Everything would go on the way it was meant to. He would be sentenced and that would be the end of it.

Keeping it, and prolonging his own life in the process, would be unfair. Bringing a new spark into the world only to abandon it would be unfair. Laying such a burden on Rodimus would be unfair. 

He curled his fingers into fists. 

Ratchet was watching him closely, optics narrowed. “I don’t want to know about everything else you’re thinking right now, Megatron,” he said bluntly. “All you need to tell me is if you want to carry the new spark or not. This is _your_ medical prerogative, _your_ choice. Whatever you decide, we’ll figure out a way to make it happen, and you can take your penance after.”

His rationality unit was ruthlessly pointing out that the most logical course of action would be to release the spark while carrier protocols were still nascent. It would present the least disruption to all events. 

But...if he carried this spark, it meant that he would be able to leave something of himself behind. 

It would be something that had the potential to do good, that could survive and rebuild in the twilight world that Megatron had created.

Was there any chance that he could keep the identity of the other progenitor a secret? It was highly unlikely. When his systems had crashed earlier and Ratchet had been called, the first thing that would have happened would have been the committee being informed of his condition. Doubtless they would have called on Magnus to demand answers, if not Rodimus himself in his capacity as co-captain. He could only hope that Rodimus would think twice before admitting it. Before Rodimus’ own name was smeared by the energon-swathed darkness that was to be Megatron’s legacy.

The image of that trim, cocky frame, the steady gaze of pale blue optics, and an open hand reaching for Megatron…

He cut off the thought before it could become anything else. Opened his mouth, and closed it again.

They had shared a moment, nothing more.

“How is it?” he finally managed instead, willing the ragged edge of his voice to pass.

Ratchet’s expression darkened slightly at Megatron’s avoidance of the question. He picked up the scanner from where it’d been placed on the ground, switching it on and running it again over the length of Megatron’s body. 

“It’s good that I got here when I did,” he said at last. “The new spark - and your own - were very unstable. Following what I explained before, the restrictions on your power and lack of fuel probably made for what I’m guessing was an extremely uncomfortable spark split.” It’d been _excruciating_ , Megatron remembered with an inward grimace, a pull on his most vulnerable component where he’d been helpless to even react. Ratchet eyed him warily, but continued, “Luckily, it’s as stubborn as you, so once I got the auxiliary power cables plugged in and a direct fuel line to your tank, it didn’t take too long to settle down. As you have, if these readings are anything to go by.”

Megatron vented slowly, taking it in. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“I can give you a basic diagnostic program that you can run to monitor the new spark, if you want.” Ratchet’s tone was suspiciously bland. 

If he could read the spark’s life-pulse, would he be able to give it up? Did he intend to give it up now, if it was the right thing to do? The hated hope rose up inexorably, unable to fully extinguish. He _wanted_ to keep it. Even if it would be wrong to do so. 

“Please,” he said.

Ratchet unwound a small cable and tapped on Megatron’s medical wrist-port. A klik and the program finished transferring, installing swiftly. He granted the simple permissions, and a small gray screen popped up on the corner of his HUD. 

He vented a quick breath before he could stop himself. On the background of that gray rectangle, against the steady readings of his own spark, a green indicator of another smaller spark pulsed in an irregular up-down. Looking at it, he could tell it was just slightly faster than his own, an eager energy batting almost-playfully around his containment chamber. 

It reminded him of Rodimus. Everything seemed to do so, these days.

Would he be allowed to speak to his former co-captain? Ratchet could try to reassure as much as he wanted to, but Megatron was under no illusions. He was at the mercy of the sentencing committee and just an orn ago, they had already decided his fate. How much would the existence of a new spark change things? Did he truly have a choice in this?

Footsteps rang outside the cell. It was a guard - he looked like a Constructicon, though his colors had been muted. One of Prowl’s, then. “Medic Ratchet, the committee requests your presence.”

Ratchet frowned, and then turned deliberately away. “I won’t leave my patient.”

The guard exvented in a low huff, then marched forward and held up a small datachip. “These are direct orders from Optimus Prime. Please use this override for the dampening barrier and comm him to confirm.”

Ratchet snorted and then, after a brief pause, snatched the chip and plugged it cursorily into a decontaminating unit before switching it to a main reader. He cast his optics upwards, as though he could physically glare through the layers of metal. After what seemed to be an eternity of curt internal communications, he wrenched the chip out and twisted around, as reluctantly as though he was being forcibly magnetized away. 

“Megatron, I’m going to go and report on how you’re doing. I want you to stay on your back, and you can disconnect the fuel line if you want, but you have to leave the auxiliary power cables in. Your circuitry is worn out at best and could be dysfunctional at worst without the support.” He stepped closer, then briskly pressed the datachip into Megatron’s hand, as casually as though he was just giving him an encouraging pat. “I’ll be back as soon as it’s over.”

An unexpected wave of gratitude washed over Megatron. His fingers closed around the datachip and he nodded. “Understood.”

***

The instant he left the shielded basement of the jail, Ratchet’s comms were flooded with incoming messages. Most were from Drift, and Ratchet shuttered his optics, feeling slightly guilty. He _had_ been uncontactable for almost two-thirds of an orn now, and the last thing Drift knew was that Ratchet had been paged urgently by Optimus, without any information on why or what for. They’d both assumed that it was Prime’s personal medical emergency, since the page had been both so succinct as to be terse, as well as flagged with the highest priority. As much as they had taken their relationship to the next level, patient confidentiality was still something Ratchet would never consider breaching, and Drift knew better than to ask as well. He’d promised to contact Drift at the first possible opportunity instead.

Then he’d arrived at the compound and been practically half-shoved, almost-carried into a large room, where Megatron and Ultra Magnus had been in a tangle of limbs on the ground. Megatron had gone into systems failure and collapsed; his frame had already started to bleach unhealthily. Ultra Magnus had been desperately trying to jog him awake and hold him in a sitting position. Prowl had been pacing back and forth, pausing only to hiss something at Optimus, who had ignored his advisor and come down to speak quietly to Ratchet.

The entire trial had been held under the utmost secrecy. Today was to have been the day of sentencing, but something had happened to Megatron. Everyone knew that the former warlord’s components were a bit of a tangled mess - there was simply no way a mech could keep a portal to a black hole somewhere in his internals otherwise. Ratchet had gotten to work immediately, plugging in and sweeping past jagged firewalls with medical overrides and the permissions that Megatron had granted him onboard the Lost Light. It had taken a deca-cycle or two after Ratchet had revealed that the fool’s energon had been nothing more than a psychological trick, but Megatron had given him full medical access after that, an action that spoke louder of continued faith than any words could have done. Millennia of war aside, they had somehow managed - if grudgingly, on Ratchet’s part - to come to some sort of understanding. 

When the results of the initial scan pinged back, Ratchet caught Optimus’ eye. 

_:: Optimus. We need some privacy **now**. ::_

It was a measure of Optimus’ trust in Ratchet that the request had been immediately granted. As soon as Ultra Magnus had been dismissed, four guards had entered the room with a stretcher. They’d taken Megatron back to his cell as Ratchet followed, hurriedly preparing a list of required supplies and sending off the urgent request to First Aid. Optimus had followed at a more sedate pace after handling the committee’s loud protestations, and by the time he’d arrived, Ratchet had had Megatron’s chest plates open. There had been no disguising the shock in Optimus’ optics when Ratchet had pointed out the fuzzily pulsating new spark around Megatron’s fading one and delivered the news. It had taken far too long after that to stabilize Megatron and the new spark both.

Ratchet himself was disturbed, if not conflicted. That the committee might execute Megatron was one thing. Megatron had owned up to his grievous crimes, and submitted himself willingly. Ratchet would not be able to say that he had forgiven the former leader of the Decepticons for all of the countless injuries that had come across Ratchet’s table, but it’d become increasingly harder to condemn Megatron to his face, the way Ratchet had used to do. Because Ratchet had spoken the truth, when he’d confessed about the fool’s energon. That he could see that Megatron _meant_ to change.

To sentence him to death along with a new spark? Everything in Ratchet’s processing recoiled against the idea. Their population had been completely decimated by war, but even had it not been for that, all of Ratchet’s medical directives would have driven him towards preserving life. Most importantly, unless Ratchet’s extensive patient experience and observation skills were completely off, Megatron _wanted_ to carry the new spark. If the committee chose to execute Megatron in spite of that, Ratchet had a horrible feeling that he would end up doing something that would land himself on a wanted list, which was as far away as possible from the peaceful retirement and idyllic life that he and Drift had started to talk about. 

But there was no point in speculating further for now, and he had a hearing to get to.

Drift’s messages would have to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

“Well!” Rodimus’ voice was bright with false cheer. “What are we waiting for again?”

Magnus slanted a look over, and resisted the urge to issue a stern rebuke. In all honesty, he didn’t even know where he would start. Rodimus was visibly thrumming, his entire frame fidgeting uneasily. The bravado from the sentencing chamber had faded, and now the only thing his former co-captain was giving off was a sort of directionless but obstinate doggedness.

They’d been taken to one of the rooms with the identical-looking doors. It looked like a waiting area, furnished simply with a low table and two long benches. Prowl had all but slammed the door shut on their heels, but not before nastily ordering - in no uncertain terms - that both Magnus and Rodimus were to stay put until otherwise notified. 

“I want to see him, Mags.”

He didn’t even look up. “Rodimus, we’re not leaving this room.”

“But- ”

“Do you even realize what kind of trouble we’re in?” Magnus asked curtly. “We turned Megatron over to the Galactic Council for a _reason_ ; doing so was supposed to be a peace offering, with the hope that Cybertron might one day be a part of the system. If Megatron’s sentence cannot be carried out, we’re as good as rescinding the gesture. We’d be accused of willfully harboring our greatest criminal and hiding him from galactic justice. It’d be a show of _flagrant disregard_ for the Council, and could easily be construed as an aggressive rejection of peace and unity. And if they sentence him to be executed despite his condition anyway, then- ”

If there were worse things than condemning a new spark to be snuffed out just by virtue of who its carrier was, Magnus couldn’t think of any at the moment. Rodimus had stiffened at his last words, hands tightening into fists, before he plainly forced himself to open them.

“I’m sorry it’s come to that,” Rodimus muttered.

Magnus slumped. “Are you?”

“...Not really.”

“ _Rodimus._ ” Magnus could feel the beginnings of a moon-sized glitch starting up.

“I want to save him, Mags. He’s changed, you know he has. I didn’t mean - we didn’t mean - for this to happen. But it’s happened, and hey, talk about fate, right? I- ”

“Rodimus,” Magnus couldn’t stop the groan, the imagined crunch of his crisis management unit. “Rodimus, you’re the _other progenitor_. Of a _new spark_ , carried by Megatron. Please, run internal diagnostics and then tell me that your motivator hasn’t been compromised. _Of course you want to save him._ ”

There was a peculiar look on Rodimus’ face. “I wanted to save him before as well. But he wouldn’t let me.”

Against his better judgment, Magnus glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“When we- ” the faint heat was back in Rodimus’ faceplates, but he pushed through quickly, “After we...interfaced...I, uh, might have asked him if he wanted to be smuggled off-world?”

Magnus gaped at him in complete disbelief. “Rodimus!” 

If Megatron had disappeared right before he was to have been turned in to Prowl...Magnus couldn’t even begin to comprehend the magnitude of it. The entire crew of the Lost Light could have been held responsible. _All of them_ could have been jailed for abetting Megatron’s escape. And Rodimus had- had offered this?!

“I don’t know how much I meant it, or if I was just, you know, saying it. But I think...I did mean it,” Rodimus’ voice was wistful. “Of course, the stubborn old bugger shut me down directly. He really believed that the only way forward was to do the ‘right’ thing.”

Magnus was scrabbling for something to say, but dismay was quickly taking over. “Rodimus. Are you- do you- ” The words wouldn’t vocalize.

Rodimus cared. He cared a lot, that much was evident. Magnus hadn’t been blind to the way that his former co-captain had saved Megatron during the disaster that had been the attack from the Decepticon Justice Division, or the convenient argument and resultant snap decision that had left Megatron stranded in a different universe, as far away from judgment as was existentially possible. But Rodimus had always been like that, too pure and tender-hearted for his own good, impetuously running off on rescue missions determined to save every living creature he could, big or small. He would rage and flame against those who crossed him, and then forgive his wrongdoers in the next pulse of a spark if they showed even the faintest genuine glimmer of remorse. He had always led the charge, a blazing vanguard for all who came under his protection. 

And at some point, Megatron had come under that protection. 

Giving pleasure was one thing - although Magnus would rip his own arm off before he asked Rodimus if that had occurred - but interfacing with another mech didn’t _have_ to be romantic. It was an intimacy of which there were varying degrees, requiring only that most difficult basis of complete trust and respect. Magnus could - with some very belated overthinking and extrapolation back on all of their time together - appreciate that Rodimus and Megatron had, against all odds, forged a deeper mutual understanding during their joint tenure captaining the Lost Light. Enough to want to open their ports and cement the unexpected connection with that innermost of exchanges.

The spark-merge, on the other hand, was a bit more telling than anything that Rodimus might have said. Rodimus had been certain that he and Megatron were not in a relationship, but...then why had he done it? Had it been intended as a one-off thing only because of Megatron’s insistence on surrendering himself? They had all been doing nothing but fighting for so long, and there had been precious little room for attachment along the way. Rodimus was always so impulsive - had he even realized the implications? 

The consequences being what they were, imagining Rodimus as a _progenitor_ was also making Magnus’ regulatory unit itch with the urge to compile at least several different protocols on appropriate spark-rearing behavior.

“He’s been through so much, Mags.” Rodimus’ voice was soft and distant, tugging Magnus back to the present. He sounded as though he were looking into a saved memory. “All throughout the war, Megatron’s struggled. He fought for what he believed in, and I’m not- I know it sounds crazy and I’m not making excuses for all the terrible things he’s done, but he was just _trying_ \- I saw it, he really believed there was no other way to hit at the corruption and functionist beliefs of the Senate than to rise up. He wanted to make a difference and change his lot in life. Now he has such deep regrets...about so many things. Everything he’s had to let go of since then.”

Magnus jerked his spiraling processor back with an iron grip and grounded himself tiredly. “Even if that’s true, you can’t possibly be saying that his actions don’t deserve punishment.” He would reluctantly concede the point that the problems of their society had been so completely institutionalized that undoing it would have taken...considerable effort. And Magnus was not so vain as to think there might have been a completely non-violent route. But though the cause had started out just, the Decepticons had clearly gone astray at some point, in a very generous manner of speaking.

Rodimus was eyeing him, thoughtfully and detachedly. 

“There’s energon on all our hands, Mags. You know that’s true. Plus, execution or lifetime imprisonment? Couldn’t- couldn’t it be anything else? I’ve lost mechs, and my home, in the war as well- ” and here a shadow crossed his face, so dark that Magnus had to look away. “But the war is _behind_ us now. This cycle of blame and punishment has to stop _somewhere._ ”

Magnus vented heavily. “As the mutiny on our ship clearly showed, not everyone can be as forgiving as you, Rodimus.”

They sat in silence for a long while after that. Then Rodimus grimaced and stretched out on the bench.

“I still want to see him.”

Magnus shuttered his optics and thought about everything. The endless battlefields. The adventures of their long quest. The unlikely friendship that he himself had found.

“I know,” he said finally. “I do, too.”

***

In his millions of years of service, Ratchet had never been intimidated by authority, and it showed.

“Megatron has recovered for now,” he barked, leveling a bullish gaze on each and every one of the committee members who were staring at him. “But his systems are not stable enough to see the full growth of the new spark through. He will need to be moved to a proper facility where I can monitor developments properly.”

The golden scalehorn who was chairing the meeting - Ambassador Salzaret, if Ratchet’s fast-dwindling capacity for names was anything to go by - looked straight back at him, completely unaffected. “What sort of developments?” here it nodded to Optimus, who was also a picture of calm in the face of Ratchet’s obvious disgruntlement. Ratchet had never understood how Optimus put up with all the politicking, the drawn-out processes of diplomacy, but it wasn’t his business and Ratchet did have a grudging respect for the ability. “Your Prime has advised that you would be the one who could give us a brief overview of the Cybertronian gestation process and the time it takes.”

With the drawn-out war, it had been _at least_ a few hundred years since Ratchet had last seen a sparked mech, if not more. Spark-merging was a much more unreliable means of creating their progeny; as a race, they had always focused first on harvesting from the Well of All Sparks, and later when those spark-waves had diminished, pushed all their available research and resources towards attempting to ignite new hot spots that could generate thousands of new sparks at once. He tempered a reflexive scowl at the thought of both their lack of current information as well as the extent to which they had damaged their planet, and began pulling up the archived databanks. 

“It’s rare, but when two sparks merge, a new spark can sometimes be created,” he said tersely. “Once it has been sparked into existence, it needs to gain enough energy from its carrier’s spark before it can split away to exist independently within the carrier’s containment chamber. In Megatron’s case, his spark was already weakened by his many reframes to begin with. Because he was so thoroughly restrained after he surrendered- ” he resisted the urge to look in Prowl’s direction, “-whatever power he had left was being completely drained by the new spark as it grew. That is the reason for the system shock that sent him offline when the spark descended - it was simply pulling too much power from him for the process.”

“From here on out, the spark should ideally be exposed on a regular basis to its progenitors’ spark energies. Megatron’s spark energy will be shared first and foremost seeing as it is his containment chamber in question, but his frame is fairly damaged and now in constant need of subsidiary power due to the energon demands of the new spark. I cannot say this enough: he is _not_ in a good condition to carry. The other progenitor must be identified as soon as possible and brought in to assist in order for the spark to receive energy in the most compatible frequency. In parallel, a protoform and a spark crystal must be prepared, and this requires specialized equipment and an incubating tank. Once the spark has gained sufficient mass and energy, it can then be transferred to the new spark crystal and integrated into the protoform.”

“And how long will it take for the spark to be grown enough for transfer?” Salzaret enquired.

Ratchet crossed his arms. “It differs from carrier to carrier. But an average of one stellar cycle is most common.”

The Kathexian ambassador - Yuvus? Yuvur? Ratchet was beginning to care less and less, propriety be damned - opened its upper mouth. “Are you saying that Megatron could...perish naturally during this gestation, if we merely postpone his sentencing to let him carry while keeping him imprisoned?”

“Yes,” Ratchet didn’t hesitate. “If the new spark continues to draw power only from Megatron, there is a strong possibility that both or either of their sparks could extinguish, even if I keep him hooked up to a generator. Megatron _must_ be moved to a fully-equipped medbay for the new spark to have a fighting chance.”

“So you keep saying,” a Nebulon murmured.

“I’m a medic,” Ratchet snapped. “I don’t care about anything beyond my patient’s welfare.”

Optimus steepled his fingers. “I trust Ratchet completely,” he said quietly. “But for the benefit of those who have not had the privilege of knowing him and who will need an external review of Ratchet’s objectivity, as well as perhaps an assurance of a lack of any ulterior motive, I entreat Ambassador Drewiek to engage your telepathic abilities, should Ratchet also agree.”

Telepathi-?! Ratchet swung his head around to glare at Optimus. Optimus met his optics steadily. 

Oh, for the love of Primus- they were going to _have words_ later. But there were other priorities for now. Ratchet gave Optimus a tight nod. 

“Fine. Yes. Do it,” he grouched. “Whatever it takes to convince you lot that I’m giving you the unburnished _facts._ ”

It didn’t take long at all. Ratchet was asked to repeat himself, but he had no idea of what was being done, or how - he felt nothing, and only realized that it was finished when the wispy ambassador regarding him turned slightly to nod at Salzaret. The Drulian seated behind the committee leader made an unhappy noise.

Ratchet couldn’t read the serpentine scalehorn’s expression at all and was starting to conclude that it was not for a lack of trying; perhaps a Zahn simply didn’t have a mobile face. If not, it was probably the most impressive deadpan Ratchet had seen.

“Can I go now?” he demanded. “I need to get back to Megatron.” Megatron hadn’t used the datachip override to contact him so he was probably still fine, but Ratchet had lived for a very long time with too much cynicism to assume that the jail would continue to be safe for the carrier. There were simply too many variables, from the many committee members and their roaming guards to the overzealous Constructicons who, on a good day, still had a bit too much Prowl-worship in them for Ratchet’s liking.

“Yes, of course,” Salzaret murmured. “We will need to finish our deliberations. You are dismissed.”

He inclined his helm sharply and spun on his heel, but not before shooting Optimus a loaded look. Then he was out the doors, pushing his fatigued systems onward to the lift that would take him back to the jail and pulling up the latest of Drift’s messages, wondering distractedly what he could reply.

***

Optimus watched as Ratchet left, before shifting minutely to ease the tension that had stretched across his cables. The committee had all but walled themselves in the sentencing chamber for the better part of several orns now, and adjourned only for sustenance and recharge. Having had to come to a consensus on Megatron’s sentence had been difficult enough, and then the complication of the new spark had put everything to moot anyway.

Prowl glanced at him out of the corner of an optic, but didn’t say anything. The tactician had fully recovered his equilibrium, which Optimus was grateful for; Prowl did not take well to the unexpected as a general rule, and with the way the last orn had continued to heap one surprise over the other, it was probably a miracle that his advisor hadn’t short-circuited a system or two. And then Ratchet had been as direct as Optimus could have hoped, and as truthful as Optimus had trusted he would be.

“It appears that we have all the information we require to make a decision,” Salzaret announced. “Optimus Prime, as the Cybertronian representative in this committee, will you officially state your request regarding the criminal Megatron of Tarn once more?”

He stood, ignoring the stiffness in his pedes with practiced ease. “Thank you, Ambassador. I would like to request that Megatron’s sentence be postponed until his new spark has grown enough to be harvested. In the meantime, Megatron will remain in Autobot custody, and the terms of his confinement adjusted according to his medical requirements. After the new spark has been transferred, we will submit him back to the Galactic Council and he will be held accountable for his crimes then. It would be an extension of mercy for the new spark only, nothing further.”

Ambassador Kh’rit stared at him, yellow eyes still unwilling and distrustful - Drul had had large mining facilities that had turned up a steady supply of ore-rich metals, and had subsequently been one of the worlds hardest hit by the Decepticons through their vorns of conquest. He had been the most vocal opponent so far of releasing Megatron for any length of time, but Optimus would not begrudge him that. 

“What if he escapes your custody?”

Optimus regarded the Ambassador politely. “Megatron surrendered himself willingly to the Galactic Council this time, rather than making to rejoin the Decepticons even when it became clear he would not be spared judgment. As our medic also advised - and with his diagnosis verified as truthful by the committee - ” he nodded in thanks to Ambassador Drewiek, whose face seemed to solidify briefly in acknowledgement, “-Megatron will not likely be going anywhere, not with his frame in so poor a condition and further encumbered by the power demands of a new spark.”

“But what if he does?” Kh’rit insisted, tone growing malevolent. “What will Cybertron give up in return?”

Optimus hesitated - he could feel Prowl begin to bristle at his side. They’d gone over it several times and there was really only one thing that Optimus could give, which Prowl still vehemently disagreed with. Optimus had considered his second-in-command’s objections seriously, had turned the issue over and over again in his processor, but there was no way around it, not unless he was willing to sacrifice the new spark and this, Optimus could not do. 

“If he does, then Cybertron will withdraw its application to join the Galactic Council,” he said at last. “And we will stand alone, and make no further request to any of the Council member worlds for aid or trade.” 

With Cybertron so devastated, their numbers so reduced _and_ without any allies, they would be significantly vulnerable both to any remaining Decepticon incursions or invasions from other species. It would be as good as painting a target on the surface of their planet as they began the slow, arduous process of rebuilding. Prowl’s plating clamped painfully tightly to his frame, but it was the only visible sign of his protest - the prospect was the complete opposite of the long-term strategy he had worked out for Cybertron’s revival and survival. However, though he would argue with Optimus for an entire quartex in private and let loose a dozen machinations half of which Optimus would probably never even know about, when it came time to present a solid front Prowl had always been nothing if not extremely reliable. 

Megatron himself had always put Cybertron first, even if his vision of what it should look like had been different. In agreeing to submit himself to the Galactic Council, he’d clearly understood the situation for what it was - and had been willing to have himself used as a bargaining chip for Cybertron to reopen peaceful relations with the rest of the universe. Unless Megatron himself changed his mind (which, as Optimus had found out firsthand through the last few million years was a near impossible thing), then it wouldn’t matter; he’d still be turned over for justice in a stellar cycle, but without the loss of a precious new spark.

Kh’rit nodded sharply and subsided, but continued to look sullenly around at the other members of the committee. Salzaret dipped its head in Optimus’ direction, then addressed the room. “Does anyone else have any other questions, or concerns?”

Silence, broken only by a nervous shuffle of someone’s feet.

“Very well then,” there was the faintest pull at the corner of Salzaret’s mouth. “Let us vote.”


	4. Chapter 4

When the door finally swung open, Rodimus almost fell off the bench he’d been lying on. Magnus rose in a much more dignified manner, trying not to betray his dread at whatever was coming. His HUD was pinging a warning that his fuel levels were now down to 27% - it had been a very long orn. 

But instead of a guard beckoning them out, it was Optimus himself who stood there, Prowl just behind him with an almost-imperceptible scowl on his face. Without the Prime’s battle-mask on, Magnus could read the small signs of fatigue but the large, powerful field was unmistakably resolute.

“Has the committee come to a conclusion?” Magnus asked, at the exact same moment that Rodimus righted himself and demanded, as formally as ever, “ _Well?!_ ” 

Optimus stepped into the room, motioning for Prowl to close the door behind them. He looked at them steadily, optics lingering consideringly on Rodimus, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and even. “The committee has agreed to let Megatron carry the new spark to completion.”

Relief swamped Magnus so thoroughly that he almost missed that Optimus was still talking. Beside him, Rodimus was practically vibrating, his former captain’s energy spiking wildly. 

“We shall go to Megatron directly after this. Ratchet will most certainly have instructions, and Prowl- ” Optimus’ helm dipped towards the tactician, “-Prowl has certain things that he would like to arrange in order for Megatron to be released to a proper medbay. But before we see him, I wanted to speak with you both.”

Magnus held himself carefully, tamping down on the uncharacteristic lightness of his motivator. Optimus was looking at them gravely still, which meant…

“This does not commute the original sentence in any way. After the new spark is harvested, Megatron will still be turned back to the Galactic Council. That they agreed to this was...all that we could have hoped for. I am sorry.”

Magnus noted distractedly that Rodimus’ field had drawn tight and gone completely flat. He himself was trying very, very hard not to let disappointment show in his own. He should have known. He had been certain that he had fully accepted that Megatron - now logged irreversibly in his archives as a comrade in poetry, a like-minded appreciator of rules and discipline, a _friend_ \- would be taken away...right up until the point where it seemed like there would be a chance to avert it. He’d known this sort of wishful thinking was inefficient, the odds such a small probability that it should have been negligible. With a sinking feeling, Magnus realized he had indulged in it anyway.

“Ratchet will tell you what you need to know, Rodimus. I understand that the role of the other progenitor is an important one in ensuring the new spark’s health. As for Megatron’s condition- ” Optimus hesitated, but only for a moment. “I will not speak too much, with respect for his privacy. But it appears he will require considerable care during the process. I ask only that the both of you remain accessible within the next stellar cycle to assist, as far as is possible or needed. I know that you were scheduled to join an enforcement unit after the trial concluded, Magnus. I have asked Prowl to ensure that your unit is not sent to any of the outer cities before then.”

There was a knee-jerk denial that his professional duty would take a backseat to a personal one, but the protest of his regulatory protocol subsided with only a few clicks when Magnus remembered catching Megatron earlier, and thought of how rapidly his frame had grayed. “Understood.”

“Rodimus,” Optimus’ voice was neutral but firm. “We must speak separately about your...relationship with Megatron. But that can be done when we have sorted out the most urgent matters first. I saw that you had applied to join the Exitus - that request is now denied due to the circumstances at hand. We will have to see what we can find for you to do here in Iacon. Prowl will no doubt find something suitable for your abilities.” 

Rodimus hadn’t moved throughout Optimus’ speaking, but he nodded once, sharply, at that. “Yea, that’s fine. I got it.” His pale blue optics tracked restlessly between Optimus, Prowl and flicked to Magnus beside him. Magnus could read the barest sliver of disquiet threading through Rodimus’ frame, swiftly muted.

Optimus nodded back in acknowledgement, turning around to lead the way out without further ado. Then his hand paused on the door and he looked back, between them. 

“You both understand that this matter must remain as confidential as we can make it,” he said quietly. “It would be too much of a danger to Megatron, to the new spark, and to the current political situation if this became public. It was not an explicit condition of Megatron’s temporary release, but I believe it will be for the best if there is as little speculation as possible.”

“Yes, of course,” Magnus agreed without hesitation. 

Rodimus looked away. 

They left the room and headed towards the lift, stopping only when a Constructicon - Scavenger - bolted up to Prowl with a small box and handed it over, optics roving curiously over them. Prowl checked the contents before dismissing him with a quick wave, and then they were stepping into the lift, descending into the basement.

***

From behind his shuttered optics, Megatron noted the unusual rate of his fuel consumption with impassive interest. When Ratchet had been called away earlier, the full state of his tank had been almost embarrassing, and he’d decided to disconnect the line before lying back down. Now, barely four joors later, and with almost no activity to speak of, his HUD was alerting him to the fact that his fuel level had dipped to almost 50%. 

Whether it was because it was a time of intensive development for the newly-split spark, or if his systems were simply deteriorated to that extent, Megatron wasn’t clear. In any case, he would probably need to reconnect the fuel line soon, or risk the medic’s irate glare if he set the monitor alarms off again. However, it was going to be impossible to haul himself up from the berth and grab the line from the dispenser without waking Ratchet, who had only just managed to slip into a light recharge after single-mindedly poring over a datapad the entire time since he’d returned from giving his report. Megatron weighed the frustrated pinch between Ratchet’s optics and the state of his tank, and calculated that reconnecting the line could wait at least another joor. Perhaps two.

Ratchet had not said much after he’d come back. He’d muttered something sourly under a vent about bureaucratic kinks before staring away the guard who’d escorted him back and planting himself firmly in the chair between the low portable berth and the cell gate. Megatron had found the defensive position just a touch amusing, but also couldn’t deny the odd flash of warmth that had pushed up from his processor. 

In all his years as gladiator and Decepticon commander, even with a limb or two missing, Megatron had never once been described as helpless. For all that his systems appeared to be buckling under his new circumstances now, he thought that he could probably still have broken out of his cuffs, although getting past the electrical barriers might have sent him into momentary stasis. Whether or not he would have onlined quickly enough to dispatch the guards and do much beyond that was a hypothetical that his strategic unit had stalled on, but for all the old enmity that still lurked in Ratchet’s optics when the medic glanced at him, this surly protective behavior was still so similar to what he imagined _friendship_ would have been like. It was a concept still so new as to be utterly alien that he couldn’t help wanting to experience more of it by something so simple as letting the other mech recharge a fraction longer. 

He might have been offended in a time not far past at the mere insinuation that he needed help, and he could not entirely remove the whisper of suspicion that Ratchet’s presence and actions could serve both to heal him and confine him, but Megatron was conscious enough to know when the old thinking patterns of war were being superimposed over the current situation.

He supposed the committee was continuing to deliberate. Ratchet hadn’t mentioned Rodimus or Magnus, so perhaps they hadn’t been called yet. But that would have been unbelievably remiss of both the committee and Prowl - for the latter, it was just too unlikely a scenario. The heavy, empty space of not knowing what was going on seemed to expand every astrominute that he spent watching the dull gray slate of the jail ceiling. 

At a time like this, he missed the feeling of power, of being in charge; the ability to simply stride forward and seize what he wanted with his own hands, the heady exhilaration of moving purposefully. In the last few thousand years of the war - or perhaps even before - that purpose had often been tinged with frustration and desperation. On the Lost Light, there had been a different desperation, an open-ended question as to what the Knights of Cybertron would make of him, but there had still been purpose. And now...now there was nothing.

From down the long corridor, there was the sudden sound of pedes. More than one mech, or even two; it sounded like a whole group had entered the basement from the direction of the lift. With a determined heave, Megatron pulled himself up into a sitting position and turned his head towards the newcomers with equal parts relief and reluctance from his useless contemplation, not knowing even really who he wanted to see. Ratchet stirred as well as the footsteps neared, and then he onlined into full awakeness within several nanokliks, optics zeroing in automatically on the monitor and Megatron’s dwindling fuel level. The tired gaze snapped to him in an annoyed huff.

Before Ratchet could say a word, however, they were both distracted by the two mechs that rounded the corner and came into view. 

“Oh thank Primus, finally,” Ratchet rose on creaking joints, every bit as unenthusiastically relieved as Megatron felt. “Optimus, can we get out of this forsaken excuse of a medbay _now_ please?” He ignored Prowl with practiced ease for a long second, before nodding brusquely in the barest acknowledgement. Ratchet was probably still upset over the truly minor issue of the stasis cuffs. Megatron found himself struck with a sudden inappropriate urge to chuckle.

Then he caught sight of the two other mechs behind Prowl and the amusement evaporated, turning into something breathless that seemed to leave his intake dry. He hadn’t even realized he had said anything until the name had left him in a low exvent. “Rodimus?”

The pale blue optics focused completely on him, lighting up, along with the familiar lopsided grin that Megatron’s memory banks had been circling around on-and-off since he’d been imprisoned. Rodimus pushed his way past Prowl, practically leaping to the bars of the cell, gaze flickering quickly over him and checking him over. “Megs! Look at ya, still kicking,” this last was said fondly and more softly than Megatron was used to hearing from him. He looked over Rodimus in return, noticing the tired stiffness in the frame, the minutest lag that indicated low fuel levels, and responded on autopilot more than anything, “Stop calling me that.” 

But he knew that the chide was so filled with grateful surprise as to be nearly pathetic. His spark was beginning to pound a little quicker, and beneath that, the new spark, as if sensing its other creator close by, began to oscillate in an excitable pattern on its simple program.

Magnus cleared his throat, and Megatron’s gaze jumped to him. The former Enforcer looked...almost embarrassed, but was also clearly pleased to see Megatron, despite the awkward posture that he couldn’t quite hide as his optics traveled meaningfully from Megatron, to Rodimus and back to Megatron again.

Oh. Of course. 

Megatron resisted his motivator’s knee-jerk impulse to admonish Rodimus, to ask him if he’d thought it through or if he’d even held out for five kliks before saying anything in the misguided belief that he would somehow save Megatron, change everything that Megatron had done, simply by revealing everything. It was doubly difficult to say anything when he was aware of Optimus’ carefully-arranged faceplates and the tense set of Prowl’s frame as they stopped in front of the cell as well, one of the guards jumping to deactivate the barrier. Megatron settled for letting a trace of his field brush out against Rodimus instead, conveying an exasperated but gentle reprove. Rodimus’ crooked grin warmed into a small, real smile.

“Yes, Ratchet,” Optimus answered. Megatron had almost forgotten that the medic had asked a question. “I have sent word ahead to the Iaconi central hospital, and they will be securing a suitable private area. I saw that you’ve submitted a requisition list and requested additional personnel as well - let us review those together when you have a moment. In the meantime, Prowl has a precaution he thinks is necessary in order to expedite Megatron’s release from here.”

The cell with all its additions of emergency medical supplies was too small to admit a third mech; from outside, Prowl simply handed the box he’d been carrying over to Ratchet. The medic took it with a suspicious look, opening it and perusing the contents. Then flatly said, “No.”

Prowl crossed his arms over his chest. “It will not affect the new spark, or any of the other potential issues you brought up during your earlier report.”

Ratchet’s optics flashed at the other mech. “It’s an inhibitor chip. I’m not having you ‘accidentally’ blowing my patient’s head off, Prowl!” 

Megatron noticed that Rodimus’ fists clenched at that, though his former co-captain held himself calm and steady, listening with a sudden coiled intensity. From behind him, Ultra Magnus was regarding the back of the tactician’s head with something akin to distressed consternation.

Prowl stared back, stern and uncompromising. “It is an upgrade of the same inhibitor chip that Wheeljack developed for the other Decepticons who worked with us, with an additional locator beacon. Since many among us seem so confident that Megatron is not planning to take advantage of his situation, it is, as Optimus says, a precaution only. I’ll remind you that Megatron is a _prisoner_ under custody, whatever his medical needs. Install it, and then you can head to the hospital. A transport has already been arranged outside.”

“Prowl.” Even exhausted, Ratchet’s voice was steely. “If you really need some common sense knocked into that overworked tactical unit of yours, I’d be happy to- ”

“He’s not leaving here without it,” Prowl insisted.

“Perhaps,” Optimus cut in evenly, “If Ratchet was given the control datapad for the chip, Prowl? He will be overseeing Megatron and his treatment, after all. And will therefore be in the most appropriate position to adjust the limits of the chip as and when needed, without placing Megatron and the new spark in any real or imagined danger?”

Prowl shot a nasty look at his commanding officer. Ratchet’s glower transferred to Optimus as well.

“Install it,” Megatron said tiredly, holding out a forestalling hand as Rodimus surged forward in protest. The idea of giving anyone such a hold over him, of having such a component in him, made his plating crawl. It was another test, much like the indignity of the fool's energon, although Megatron was not naive enough to think that this chip was similarly fake. But he had surrendered. He had _surrendered_. He would see this through to the end. “I don’t plan on going anywhere that I shouldn’t.” 

Ratchet looked at him, mouth pinched. When the medic finally removed the chip from the box after a terse few nanokliks, Megatron ignored the clenched unwillingness of those specialized fingers, and steeled himself.

“Inside the port at the top of the spinal strut, Ratchet,” Prowl said sharply. “Once you insert the chip, the code will integrate with the central neural line.”

“Alright!” Ratchet exploded. “Just give me _one damn minute_. And I’m not doing anything until you give me the slagging control ‘pad.”

With an irritated noise, Prowl unsubspaced several small datapads from his chest, looking through them meticulously before reluctantly selecting and holding one out. Ratchet hesitated before reaching to take it, but Prowl didn’t let the device go immediately.

“There will be an alarm connected to the chip that activates beyond a certain distance, Ratchet,” Prowl said slowly. “I assume there will be no occasion in which you will find it necessary to recalibrate the settings.”

Ratchet glared at Prowl speechlessly and tugged at the datapad again. Optimus cleared his intake, and Prowl finally released it. Ratchet set it down carefully and as quickly as though it’d burned him, before turning back to all of them and jerking his helm towards the lift. “Can the lot of you clear out and give us some privacy?” he grumbled. “I’m not carrying out this procedure in front of everyone.”

Prowl’s optics narrowed; clearly, he’d wanted to witness the installation himself. Optimus, however, nodded at Ratchet. “We can meet you in the compound where the transport awaits. Come, Prowl, Magnus, Rodimus.”

“Yes, go!” Ratchet threw up his hands. “It’s not like any of you will be helping with anything from this point.”

Rodimus blinked, and then ventured a quick glance at Megatron, who was suddenly avoiding his optics. Optimus had paused mid-exit as well, half-turned around, looking between Rodimus and Megatron with a sudden dawning understanding. 

Rodimus was damned if he was going to have _Optimus_ explain where Megatron had not. Why hadn’t Megatron wanted to tell? Was he...was he embarrassed about having spark-merged with Rodimus? In any case, it appeared it was still a secret only to one mech in the room. “Ratchet,” he started, suddenly finding himself at a bit of an uncomfortable loss for words at the sudden realization that Megatron hadn’t said anything, hadn’t revealed that Rodimus was the other progenitor. “I- ”

Megatron looked up and focused on him, searching and cautious, gaze tinged with something dark. The clumsy words died in Rodimus’ throat. 

Still holding Rodimus’ gaze, Megatron murmured something to Ratchet. The medic froze. And then slowly, slowly turned around.

“...YOU?”

Rodimus couldn’t answer, couldn’t look away from Megatron. He didn’t realize that he had moved, that his pedes had carried him forward without conscious thought, that he had reached out and knelt down and taken the cold gray hands, heavy in his loose grasp, his own insecurity pushed aside by the regretful depths in those glimmering red optics. “Let me stay,” he said softly. “Please?”

They stared at each other. It felt like mere nanokliks. Or entire solar cycles, Rodimus couldn’t tell. He was just barely aware of Optimus, Prowl and Magnus leaving after a while, the echo of their footsteps fading. 

Megatron didn’t say anything, but he finally shuttered his optics. His fingers curved, just a fraction, over Rodimus’ own, and he bowed forward slightly so that their helms bumped, exposing the port at the back of his neck. Rodimus shuttered his own optics, concentrating only on listening to the sound of Megatron’s vents, hearing and hating the small, swallowed hitch when Ratchet’s fingers gently pushed down past the thick armor plates and accessed the sensitive cables behind. He held on, frame as still as he could make it, thumbs rubbing instinctive, comforting circles on the worn metal of the larger knuckles in his grip. There was a flinch, so slight that he only felt it because he was pressed so close, and Rodimus despised it, despised at the moment every single thing about the world that had put that pain there, his spark feeling as though it had jerked off-kilter in its chamber.

“We’re done here,” Ratchet announced, not without a trace of grudging sympathy. A lingering agitation was still obvious in his field. “It’s five, maybe six breems to the central hospital, Megatron. We should go now to get you settled in as soon as possible, but I want you to tell me if at any point between here and there your fuel level drops much further, is that clear?” 

Megatron laughed. It was a rusty sound. “Yes.” He made to pull his hands out of Rodimus’ and rise, but Rodimus caught his fingers firmly, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind, anything to prolong the contact, the tenuous connection. 

“We’ll talk about all of this. Right?”

Could this be a slow cell, where time was dilated? It felt like too long before Megatron nodded slightly. 

Ratchet was already moving around, disconnecting the auxiliary lines and spooling the cables up briskly. “Whatever you both need to do, you’re going to have to do it at the hospital,” he said bluntly. “Now let’s _go_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and sending kudos and comments this way! It's helped me focus on continuing this when I've been caught up in other things and lost some momentum.


	5. Chapter 5

When it’d become plain that Rodimus was not going to move from his position at Megatron’s feet, Magnus cleared his intake as subtly as he hoped was natural and half-turned to Optimus, who had been regarding the tableau silently. The small prodding gesture was enough to shake the Prime from whatever it was he’d been thinking about. Without another word, Optimus nodded to Ratchet and spun on his heel. The three of them headed back to the lift, and up towards the surface level.

Optimus had said that whichever unit he’d be assigned to would have its duties limited to the city. Magnus had not yet actually received any indication as to which unit that would be. He wondered belatedly if there would even be an assignment where he could fit in comfortably as Minimus Ambus. 

He had meant it when he’d clasped Megatron’s arm and told him that he’d destroy the Magnus armor and face the world as himself, and now by an unexpected but welcome twist of fate, Megatron would also be around to see him do it. It warmed him somehow, and gave him some strength. But destroying the armor narrowed down the scope of his typical capabilities significantly, although that was perhaps not a bad thing. They were in a time of rebuilding, after all. It made sense that the moment had come for Ultra Magnus and the battle-might the armor represented to be set aside. The organizational and administrative skills he had honed during the uncomfortable transition to peace would now be able to be set towards a larger purpose. 

He thought he’d been careful to keep his meandering thoughts from showing on his faceplates, which was why he was completely stunned a moment later when Prowl - apparently as much mind-reader as brutal tactician - abruptly turned to him as if he’d been privy to what Magnus had been thinking and said, “We may have need of you in the Diplomatic Corps, Magnus.”

The Diplomatic Corps? Magnus had not yet conveyed his intent to live as his irreducible self in the future. He supposed that Prowl thought Ultra Magnus would be a credible representative of the Autobots on interstellar missions. Would they still be keen on having him as Minimus instead if the very recognizability of his armor was the main advantage? He opened his mouth to politely enquire as much, but Prowl was continuing without missing a beat. 

“The head of the corps has flagged an interesting opportunity that could benefit from your unique talents. He would like to speak with you at the earliest possible time.” He slanted a glance at Optimus, who was standing placidly ahead of them and regarding the transport shuttle. “How about now? You’re not needed further here today.”

There was an odd sensation that Magnus decided he intensely disliked - the feeling as though Prowl had seen completely through him and had put him smartly in a box, where all questions were asked only for appearance’s sake and the answer had already been decided. Even knowing that it was Prowl’s task to manage the Autobots and that the mech was considered extremely qualified to do so (despite the staggeringly poor decision of having put Overlord aboard the Lost Light), it still stung to be so relegated, especially so soon after Magnus had been managing a shipload of rowdy mechs on his own. 

Nevertheless, duty won out above all else, as it always did. He would save his questions for the one who might or might not be his new ranking officer instead.

“Of course. Where shall I go to meet him?”

Prowl nodded once. “You may proceed back to your temporary quarters. He’s in the area, and he will find you there. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Because he’d been waiting to be reassigned after the Lost Light had been decommissioned, Magnus had not made more permanent living arrangements, and had instead taken up in one of the local enforcement office’s interim hab-blocks usually meant for transiting officers. By its nature, the quarters were plain and simple, and more than a little the worse for wear. It was a quick, three-breem walk in his large frame, and he made it there with no outward showing of his misgivings. 

The Diplomatic Corps was a suitable placement, if he thought more about it. Magnus objectively knew that his attention to propriety and detail were advantageous for such a role. Now more than ever, it was imperative to begin forging ties with the rest of the galaxy. He wondered if the Galactic Council had requested anything in lieu of postponing Megatron’s sentence, and if this opportunity Prowl had spoken of was part of it. 

So deep in thought was he that it was only after he’d keyed in the code to his quarters that he noticed he was not alone. 

As the door slid open, he stepped across the threshold and in one deft motion, twisted himself to face the interloper, blaster leveled in a nano-klik. It ended up pointing at the visor of a small black-and-white mech, who had darted forward out of the shadows at the same time that Magnus had spun around. Two photon guns pressed meaningfully against Magnus’ chassis, and his accoster smiled pleasantly at him. “Not bad.”

Magnus could feel a twinge in his processor at the insouciant assessment. His finger tightened on the trigger. “Designation?” he grit out.

The mech laughed outright, then stepped backwards. The photon guns disappeared into subspace, a sleight of hand that Magnus was almost impressed by. “Jazz. Didn’t Prowl say anything to ya?” The mech looked somewhat familiar, but Magnus couldn’t place him. His processor threw up possible lookalikes, standing on the edges of his peripheral vision in countless previous battles, before trailing off into nothing.

He lowered his blaster reluctantly, a healthy dose of disbelief suffusing every circuit. “Jazz. From the...Diplomatic Corps?”

Jazz’ visor flashed in a wink. “That’s right.”

He frowned disapprovingly. “I was under the impression that the unit was so named because it would require some judicious behavior. This manner of greeting,” he gestured shortly to the wall that Jazz had concealed himself against, “-was hardly appropriate. Especially if I am given to understand that you are the head of the unit?”

“Were you anticipating a stuffy old mech who’d swamp you with a pile of datapads?” Jazz was amused and slightly mocking. It made Magnus’ processor start to twinge again. “Well, I can see why you’d have expected something different. I can tell you more about our _Diplomatic Corps_ at the same time as I’m interviewing you. But I think we need a bit more privacy than this hallway for that, my mech.”

Magnus considered it for a long klik. Then, stiffly, he stood aside, making way for Jazz to precede him into the room.

Jazz ambled in as easily as though he owned the place. Magnus wondered briefly if the other mech had somehow already familiarized himself with Magnus’ quarters, but the thought was so uncharitable that he refused to let himself think further on it.

Beside the berth, a utilitarian desk and chair took up most of the remaining space. All the reading and notes that Magnus had done to prepare for Megatron’s trial were neatly locked away in the left drawer, so the surface was mostly bare except for a treatise on Cybertronian diasporas, which he’d been perusing for leisure. Jazz swung himself into the chair, spinning it around to face the berth and gesturing for Magnus to sit across from him. Magnus paused again, regulatory protocol towards a ranking officer warring with some exasperation at being shuffled around in his own quarters.

He sat.

“So!” Jazz smiled at him. “I hear a rumor that you’re hiding something fascinating under that armor.”

Well. The topic had been broached far more directly and quickly than Magnus himself would have wished for. “Yes,” he said rigidly, unable to entirely disguise his unease. “This was something I had hoped to discuss as well.”

Jazz leaned forward, interested. “Yea? What did you want to discuss about it?”

Magnus mastered himself with an effort. “I am not certain as to what rumors you have heard exactly. But there is some truth in what you said - this armor is external to myself.” He hesitated again, because it had been such compromising and confidential information for so long that to simply come out and say it still felt _wrong_. “I am a load-bearer, able to handle...significant physical augmentations, with ease. Prior to this potential assignment, I had decided I would put the armor aside. I’d like to do my part as myself from now on, if that is something that can be arranged.”

The other mech grinned, not affecting even a jot of surprise, and clapped his hands on his knees. “Actually, that’s perfect. Would you be able to show me?”

Magnus stared at him, aghast. “Now?” They were not even a full five kliks into the interview.

Then the rest of what Jazz had said filtered through. “Perfect? What do you mean?” The thought came unbidden to him, reluctant and ugly. “Do you already know who - and what - I am?” he asked quietly. Mostly everyone on the Lost Light might have been aware that Magnus was Minimus Ambus, but as far as he knew, that information should not have spread so far beyond that. Ultra Magnus had a reputation to uphold, after all.

Jazz’s grin widened into something sharp. “I won’t lie, my mech, I think I have a pretty good idea. As for what’s perfect for the job...is that something you need to know before we go any further?”

It felt like a test. Would Magnus need to question his superior every time for orders that he did not understand? 

“Yes,” he answered honestly. “Please.”

Jazz looked at him consideringly, humming a note for several nanokliks before seeming to come to a quick decision. 

“Okay. We have a dead-mech problem in the city.”

“What?” Magnus responded, perhaps a bit too loudly.

“There’s been an increasing incidence of mechs being offlined in a very particular way,” Jazz expounded patiently. “We can get into the unpleasant details of that later. But the part that’s relevant to why I’m here is that in at least two of the cases now, witnesses have spotted something unusual around the scene of the crime.”

Magnus got his vocalizer working properly with a stern command. “How- what does _murder_ have to do with the Diplomatic Corps?!”

Jazz looked at him quizzically. “Oh. Haven’t I said? The Diplomatic Corps is a front for covert special operations. We report directly to Prowl, and we do the investigations that are a bit too sensitive for the public enforcement office, or that nobody else wants to touch.”

Magnus’ hands creaked from where they were clutching his thighs, hard. “No,” he enunciated clearly and slowly. “You neglected to say.”

“Ah. Explains that look on your face, my mech. But back to where we were. Where you could come in really handy right now is helping to track down this particular clue we’ve got.”

He stared back at Jazz, bewildered, processor still embarrassingly stuck on _covert special operations_. “What clue?”

“Turbofoxes!” Jazz was grinning at him again, as if that alone explained everything. “Your run-of-the-mill, faster-than-lightspeed mechanimals that are usually chasing their own tails in unpopulated areas. Except our witnesses think they caught sight of one slinking about, shall we say, _quite intently_ around the areas where our dead mechs were found. Doesn’t seem like your average turbofox, huh?” His visor flickered again, pleasantly, and the words that were unsaid could have been a shout for the way that Magnus heard them.

_Just like you._

Jazz knew _exactly_ what he was then. 

He’d probably had access to and inferred through Magnus’ own report regarding Agent 113, which spelt out the final conclusion of what had happened to Dominus in the hands of the Decepticon Justice Division. Knew more than that he was Minimus Ambus once he’d shed his armor. Knew his original altmode, the same as his spark-brother’s, although it’d been millennia since he’d transformed into that. 

“I think,” he managed with some difficulty, “That this would be an appropriate time to hear more about these ‘unpleasant details’ you mentioned.”

***

Desperately in need of a deep, full recharge, Ratchet was completely unprepared for First Aid’s enthusiastic greeting as they entered the medbay. The newly-appointed CMO had clearly been in the middle of packing something, a box lying open on a table, but he turned around when the door slid open, all but flinging himself at the new arrivals, eagerness lighting up his visor. “You’re here!”

He made a beeline straight to Megatron, and would probably have put a hand directly on his former co-captain’s chestplate if Rodimus had not loudly and pointedly coughed at the last second. “Uh, Aid?” 

Megatron simply stared at the outstretched hand, surprise and a faint glimmer of amusement swirling in his field.

“Ah, sorry. Sorry!” First Aid stepped back, laughing. “It’s just, when I heard, oh, congratulations Megatron, this is all so wonderful, a new spark..! After we came back to Cybertron, and you were, you know, taken away and everything, I, well...it was a little worrying, we didn’t know what would happen to you. But now you’re here, and you’re the first sparked mech that I’ll have the privilege of overseeing myself, and this is just so _exciting_!”

Ratchet resisted the urge to dampen his audials. What was it Optimus had said when the shuttle had dropped them off outside the hospital? _As the outgoing ranking medical officer, I’ll leave it to you to brief your replacement at your discretion, Ratchet._ After the inhibitor chip had been implanted, Megatron had been uncuffed, and of course to the uninitiated, he would appear to all the world now a free mech. Looking at the cheerful red-and-white medic before him, Ratchet simply didn’t have the strength or the spark to disabuse First Aid of the notion that everything was now All Right. He saw Rodimus glance sideways at Megatron, but neither of them looked as though they would be bringing up the subject either. 

Ratchet scrubbed at his optics. It could wait. Maybe a joor, if Prowl’s additional security measures currently being set up around the lab - and on the entire floor beneath - didn’t give it away before then.

“I’ve done quite some research before on the medical usage of spark energies, as you all already know,” First Aid continued warmly, beckoning them in. “This is actually the lab I was assigned for continuing my work on that when I joined the hospital. When I heard that you’d be a long-term patient, Megatron, I thought it’d be best for you to stay here, since it has an adjoining habsuite and all my equipment is already set up. I’ll move across the hall instead.” He gestured to the box he’d half-packed, rueful. “There wasn’t much notice, but I’ve just about cleared my things!”

Megatron eyed the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the length of the curved room, the glittering view of the city they were afforded from the 10th floor of the hospital where they had come up to, and worked his intake a little. Then he asked, hesitantly and hugely doubtful, “I’m to stay...here?”

Rodimus was a lot more vocal in his appreciation, letting out a low whistle. “Aid! You’re giving up the sweet digs for Megs? That’s way above and beyond!”

First Aid’s visor winked in an embarrassed flicker. “It’s a lovely view, isn’t it? I thought it was a bit too much myself when they assigned me this room, but they assured me it was fine and no one would use it otherwise...though it was probably thanks to Ratchet announcing my new appointment right before that as well.” He laughed again, slightly self-consciously. “Anyway, please make yourself at home, Megatron! The habsuite is right there.” He pointed to an unobtrusive door at the far corner. 

Megatron hadn’t brought anything with him. He looked almost discomfited as he strode off in the indicated direction, Rodimus shadowing him close behind with a hearty thumbs-up at First Aid as he went past. First Aid barely had time to wonder why Rodimus was there as well when Ratchet came up to him, optics roving over the set-up that First Aid had prepared with a slow nod of approval. “Did you manage to find out more about what I asked?”

First Aid beamed. “One better! After thinking about it, I’m fairly sure that controlling a spark energy transfer so that it doesn’t overload into a spark-merge is just a variation on the procedure I developed previously to jumpstart one spark with another. I’ve written a program based on that that will allow the monitoring of spark energy as it’s transferred so it can be regulated properly! We just need to fine-tune an acceptable level and make sure it’s the minimum sufficient for the new spark. Going for a low steady output over a longer time instead of a few intense bursts will also likely assist in avoiding any spark-merging. Shall I transfer the program for your review?”

Ratchet considered. “Yes,” he decided finally. “But only because it sounds like a really interesting piece of code, First Aid.” He was going to have to let go sooner rather than later and he would not doubt his chosen replacement. “I trust your programming. You’re the one who revived Fortress Maximus and helped Rewind that time, after all.” The younger medic brightened at the acknowledgement, and the file pinged seconds later on Ratchet’s HUD.

“But why- ” First Aid asked thoughtfully, “-would we need to prevent a spark-merge or a potential spark-bond in the first place? Is the other progenitor not in the picture? I suppose if so, we could always try to find a spark on a similar frequency, but oh, yes, I can see why Megatron might not want to bond with a random- ”

“We have the other progenitor,” Ratchet interrupted. “You were just looking at him.”

First Aid’s visor blinked rapidly. “Wha- wait, Ratchet, you- you and Me-Megatron- ?!”

“Oh for Primus’ sake, _no_ ,” Ratchet reached out, grabbed First Aid’s arm, and then whirled him in the direction of the habsuite, where the door still stood open and Megatron could be seen looking around silently while Rodimus lounged against the door jamb, watching with a gaze that was just a little too intense to be casual. 

First Aid squeaked faintly. 

“Yes, apparently all that back-and-forth on the bridge was just for show,” Ratchet said drily. First Aid choked on a vent, and Ratchet suddenly found himself laughing, because First Aid’s shock was so completely innocent that it felt like the lightest thing Ratchet had had to deal with for a while.

“But- but then why wouldn’t they want to spark-merge? They- ” and First Aid was clearly flustered now, whispering rattledly, his visor turning wildly between Ratchet and Rodimus as if he couldn’t decide who to focus on. “-they must have merged at least once before to create the new spark, right? So are they, ah, _co-conjunxed_?”

Ratchet grimaced before he could stop himself. “It seems a bit more complicated than that. Suffice to say that direct spark-merging for them is...not advisable at this time.” He weighed his next words carefully, suddenly needing First Aid to know as soon as possible. “Megatron will still have to face the Galactic Council after the new spark has been carried to term.” 

First Aid’s visor dimmed, and his vocalizer clicked a few times in a sudden rush of understanding. “Oh. _Oh._ I see.”

In theory, the more often that spark-merges were made, the higher the likelihood of a reinforcing resonance developing, creating a spark-bond. Ratchet had gone through all his old available data on sparked mechs, even downloading several obscure and poorly-notated medical journals from before the war. The general conclusion was that it took a constant and truly astronomical amount of spark-merging between two mechs to form the elusive, permanent spark-bond that would mirror the effects of a branched spark - although the particular study most oft-quoted had been conducted with slaved rather than willing participants, which still made Ratchet ill to think about. With the addition of a new spark requiring sustained and increasing energy synchronizations and transfers, however, that probability was exponentially, dangerously multiplied. It was another reason that this way of creating new sparks had fallen out of favor, especially once the war had begun. It would have been folly to be so tied to another mech when no one’s survival was guaranteed. 

If a spark-bond were to form, Rodimus’ spark would suffer the same consequences if- _when_ Megatron was put to serve his sentence. Beside the primary purpose of ensuring the new spark’s successful deliverance, it would be their role to prevent that at all costs. 

First Aid had become noticeably subdued. “Right. Right. I’ll run the baseline tests on Megatron after this and start filling out the markers in the program.” He took a deep vent, obviously steadying himself. “We can test it when everyone has refueled and recharged? You all seem like you’re...running a little low.” 

Ratchet bowed his helm gratefully. “That sounds like a good plan. Thank you, First Aid.” He would just scrape himself together now and head home for a quick defrag and recharge, and see Drift, finally. “Will you be fine alone for a while? Megatron- ” _can’t leave_ , he wanted to say, but it was becoming too depressing to vocalize, especially when he remembered with an inner shudder the inhibitor chip he had been complicit in implanting. So instead he said, “Check Megatron’s tank first; it was running low on our way here. If you think it’s a good idea as well, we might consider replacing some of his main circuitry lines. Several are in appalling shape.”

First Aid regarded him with a low hum, distracted and equally morose, though he was trying valiantly to hide it. “Of course. I’ll take a look.”


	6. Chapter 6

The room was simple, but far more luxurious than anything Megatron was used to. Two smaller recharge slabs had been hastily pushed together to make a berth large enough for him in one corner, and beside it was a sizable desk. Several small shelves lined one wall, empty and waiting to be filled. A door in the other corner led to a simple but functional wash-rack. A large window provided the same dazzling view as the lab-turned-medbay outside. 

As he took it all in, he could feel Rodimus’ optics tracking his every move, not even bothering to disguise watching him, though his former co-captain was staying uncharacteristically silent. Waiting, Megatron realized, for him to say something first.

He could hear First Aid and Ratchet still talking quietly outside. With an inward vent, he turned and met Rodimus’ gaze.

Where to begin? Would they ever have another private moment? It was probably best to straighten things out now and draw the line.

“Rodimus,” he started, a little helplessly. The blip of the new spark jumped up and down in the corner of his HUD. 

If there was anything between them at all, he couldn’t encourage it. Every klik was borrowed time. For all that he was glad that he now had the chance to nurture the new spark, there was also an uncomfortable, almost-suffocating unease that sank like claws into his chest. He had closed all the doors in his mind in order to make peace with himself before the end drew near. Suddenly finding that he now had additional time to live felt like awakening in a vacuum in space, alone in the dark and tumbling without direction. 

The very idea of admitting that out loud was unthinkable.

“I apologize,” he said instead, more tersely than he’d intended. The words seemed to catch and burn in his intake - they weren’t ones he used often. Rodimus cocked his helm slightly, and a frown started to twist that mobile mouth. “For bringing you into this situation,” Megatron clarified, after another too-long pause when Rodimus still didn’t say anything. 

Would it be appropriate to make his displeasure known, remembering what Rodimus had done? Rodimus shouldn’t have said anything before the Council - shouldn’t have entangled himself with Megatron and his fate once more. Why had he chosen to compromise himself in this way? Reckless imprudence, all over again.

He wanted to say those things, wanted to berate Rodimus as he’d felt like doing after the first dizzying flash of relief at seeing him again had passed. But they were no longer co-captains, and Megatron was not leader of anything or anyone anymore. Rodimus was not accountable to Megatron, no matter that having the younger mech near sometimes felt like watching a worldsweeper on a collision course with a planet.

It was impossible to think that Rodimus could feel more than a passing affection for Megatron. Allowing Rodimus to stay while he’d had the chip implanted and taking comfort in the presence of that irrepressible flame had been a mistake. In a stellar cycle, Megatron would be gone, and Rodimus would be back to gallivanting around the galaxy on another ship, having temper-fraying adventures and pulling everyone around him into spirited chaos. Megatron couldn’t offer Rodimus anything. And Megatron most certainly had no right to want anything in return. 

What would he ask of Rodimus if he could, anyway?

No. All this hypothesizing was ridiculous. He shunted it away from his core processing with a decisive command that felt oddly wretched, and continued as evenly and authoritatively as he could.

“What we did...what we shared before, it can’t happen again. I don’t know how much you really thought about it when we interfaced and spark-merged,” it had truly been mortifyingly remiss of Megatron to have opened his chest, but he still couldn’t quite bring himself to actually regret having done it because being inside Rodimus had been blindingly bright and welcoming and _warm_ , so unlike anything that Megatron had ever experienced, “-but I know it happened when we were both...emotionally compromised.”

Rodimus was looking at him blankly. His vocalizer finally engaged. “Is that what you think it was, Megs?”

Megatron stared at him. There was almost a dare in that question, and he was unable to hide the growl in his own voice at being prodded. “I was about to surrender to Prowl, and you were about to surrender the ship. There is not a chance that we were not both affected by some sort of foolish sentimentality.”

He could feel the warming air gusting his way, Rodimus’ plating heating up infinitesimally in growing indignation. “You think I opened my ports and showed you everything I did, showed you my spark, just because of my ‘foolish sentimentality’?”

“Yes,” he replied shortly. Primus knew it had made Megatron himself unforgivably weak in that moment. No more of this dawdling uncertainty for either Rodimus or himself, and his tone sharpened as he gained momentum and barreled on. “We both made an error in judgement. You must know that I did not mean for this to happen.”

Rodimus was visibly holding something snappish back, field awash in burgeoning hurt and a building anger. It made Megatron’s plating ache, though he couldn’t conceive why. “I thought- I thought we’d come to a real understanding, Megs. I thought you knew- ” and an embarrassed flush was tinting the white faceplates now in the middle of this painfully awkward conversation that Megatron was suddenly wishing he could escape in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “I thought- ”

“I would be thankful,” he cut in, exerting all of his iron control not to react, “-if you decided you could assist as Ratchet suggested on our way here.” Ratchet had been deliberately vague when he had talked about the research he had asked First Aid to do and the advantages of being able to consciously control the level of spark energy transferred between them. But Megatron had heard, behind everything that had been unspoken, the dangers of any more spark-merges. The possibility of forming a spark- _bond_ , horrifying in its implications for Rodimus once Megatron was gone. It had become more and more difficult to look at Rodimus as the transport had neared the hospital. “I will not ask anything more than that of you. You are also well within your rights to walk away, and I assure you that I will hold no ill will towards you if that’s what you decide. Do you understand?”

“Oh, I understand,” Rodimus was stepping closer now, optics flashing, hands flexing in a familiar provocation on the slender hips that Megatron was steadfastly not looking at. “I hear ya, Megs. But I gotta ask, before I think of _assisting_ or not - you keep going on about how we made a mistake, and how it can’t happen again. But you seemed to like it enough when we did it, hmm? So what I want to know is: If you didn’t have to think about the council, about the sentencing and whatever it was that Ratchet was dancing around, if none of that mattered - would you _want_ to do it again?”

The locked-away memory of that blazing light, the breathless fall into easy warmth and acceptance and fire, flooded back against the bulwark of Megatron’s resolve, a despairing chink in his armor. Always, always, Rodimus had to frustrate him and test his equanimity, something that Megatron had tried to temper over thousands of years. He’d thought he had mostly succeeded now that he was so tired above all else; when had it become so easy for Rodimus to get past his defenses? He had to force his hand away from automatically drifting up to his spark. 

“No,” he lied, brutally suppressing the twinge in his processor that was howling at him to drop the pretense, to step in and bring Rodimus close. Carrier protocol. That was all it had to be. “I don’t. And you can’t expect anything more from me.”

There it was, the _hurt_ again. It was so inconceivable that Megatron had put it there. Fear, he was inured to. Battle-lust, anger, vengefulness, all of it had been par for the course. None of it had made his spark feel quite like this, like it was shrinking in its chamber. 

Rodimus was looking at him, incredulity and betrayal clear on his features. “Alright, Megs. Loud and clear.” He took a step back. Then another. 

Then he was gone, clearing the medbay so quickly that First Aid squawked in surprise as he blew past. Ratchet, who Megatron now saw had been heading for the door himself, turned and gave Megatron an assessing, narrow-opticked look. Then he followed behind Rodimus, muttering something quietly to First Aid before the door slid shut behind him.

Megatron realized with some discomfort that he had reached out without knowing it, his hand passing through the air where Rodimus had just been standing, slightly warmer than the surroundings. He dropped it immediately, and refused to meet First Aid’s sympathetic gaze from across the room. 

“I need a fuel line,” he said gruffly after a moment instead, moving forward to sit himself down on the berth closer to the window. “I’m down to a quarter-tank.”

“Oh! Of course,” First Aid bustled with the medical-grade dispensers, pulling one over to the berth. As he fiddled with the line, Megatron looked out the window, and tried to erase the image of Rodimus against the softly-glowing sky.

***

“Stop right there.”

Rodimus jerked to a halt but didn’t turn around. The lines of his frame were tense, and even from the other end of the corridor, Ratchet could see the distortion of the hot air emanating off him. He didn’t move or say anything as Ratchet hurried to catch up, cursing inwardly at the unresponsiveness of his own weary bulk. 

“Where are you going?” he tried to sound neutral, but it came out sounding curt. “First Aid still needs to run the baseline tests on your spark.”

Rodimus’ fists were clenched; he was practically radiating fury. Ratchet looked at him for a long klik, then vented once and pushed him towards the lift. “Let’s go.”

Rodimus’ optics slid to him, narrow and annoyed. “Where?”

Ratchet jabbed a bit too forcefully at the elevator button. “My hab-block.” Nothing would keep him from falling into recharge, but if Rodimus ran off now and, Pit forbid, boarded a ship headed to a far corner of the galaxy on impulse just because Megatron had set him off... “Drift will be there. You’ll be able to sort your helm out with him while I sleep. Why, do you have someplace else you need to be?”

Rodimus’ hands had uncurled slightly at the mention of Drift. He bowed his head and slumped, as if all the fight had suddenly gone out of him. “...No.”

Ratchet had never been so grateful that they’d picked a hab-block within walking distance from the hospital. As they neared, he received another pleasant surprise: Drift melted out of the shadows, a smile on his handsome face. “Hey there. I was beginning to think I’d have to go to the hospital to get you.” Then his optics slid past Ratchet, and flickered in surprise. “Rodimus?”

Rodimus grinned weakly and held up a hand in greeting. “Hiya. Sorry I followed your conjunx home.”

Ratchet snorted. “I ordered him to come with, more likely. I need a cube, a berth and not to be interrupted for at least the next five hours. I’m guessing it’s the same for him.”

Drift brushed the back of his hand against Ratchet’s, falling into step beside him. “That’s easy enough.” Privately and without turning his head, he sent a comm, glyphs curious and faintly worried. :: _Was Rodimus part of your medical emergency?_ :: Behind Ratchet, Rodimus followed them silently, optics downcast and processor clearly elsewhere.

Ratchet resisted the urge to press the spot above his nasal ridge. :: _No. And yes._ :: He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and hooked a finger with Drift’s. It earned him a quick smile, small and hot. Neither of them had been inclined towards such obvious displays of affection before, but Ratchet was starting to realize that little gestures like these comforted him as much as they reassured Drift. :: _If I’m not flat on my back by the time we get home, we can do a primary interface and you can see what I’ve been dealing with._ ::

The glyphs from Drift were decidedly amused this time, with a teasing undercurrent of warmth. :: _Being flat on your back hasn’t stopped us before. And we haven’t restricted ourselves to the primary level for a while now?_ ::

Ratchet sternly tweaked the finger he was holding. :: _None of that. I’m running near empty and we’ve got company._ :: 

Drift squeezed his finger back with another small, dazzling grin.

They entered the hab-block without any further fuss, and Ratchet decided a wash-down, and indeed everything else, could wait until after he’d recharged. He pushed Rodimus in the direction of the spare room that Drift used as a training area, and gave his conjunx a pointed glance. :: _Help me make sure he doesn’t disappear, please? Or do anything that warrants me waking up?_ ::

:: _Of course._ :: Drift sent back, certain and comforting. :: _Go rest, Ratty._ ::

It was a testament to how tired he was that he didn’t even protest the terrible nickname that Drift had come up with recently. The door to their private quarters slid open as he neared and he stumbled to the berth, practically falling on it. The knowledge of _home, Drift, safety_ sent him swiftly and blessedly into recharge.

***

“So,” Drift started conversationally, dropping to the floor to sit beside where Rodimus had slumped, forearms balanced on his knees. “You want to tell me what this is all about?”

His former captain huffed tiredly. “Hasn’t Ratchet said anything to you?”

“He hasn’t,” Drift replied, shifting closer so that he could bump against Rodimus’ shoulder with his own, keeping his field open and serene. “He was called away suddenly by Optimus and then became near-uncontactable. If he hadn’t sent me a comm saying nobody was dying and that he would be back soon, I might have turned up with my Great Sword. I get the feeling that would have been embarrassing.”

Rodimus managed a small chuckle. “Yea. I think it would’ve been.” After a hesitant pause, he leaned slightly back into Drift’s frame. “It’s Megatron.”

Drift managed not to tense up through sheer force of will and very careful, casual adjustments. “Oh? What about Megatron?” 

The last that Drift knew was that Megatron had been taken into custody by Prowl after the Lost Light’s victory lap and would be surrendered to the Galactic Council. Rodimus had been noticeably withdrawn behind a plainly false exterior of nonchalance, while Ultra Magnus had been disturbed. Drift had not been blind to the regretful air blanketing a significant proportion of the crew either. From the processor-numbing classes on the Knights of Cybertron, to saving the organic planet Miliarium and then rescuing the Lost Light from the Grand Architect, Megatron had somehow integrated himself, as much of a misfit - yes, a much more dangerous, culpable misfit, but a misfit broken by war just the same - as the rest of them. He’d become a part of the adventure. 

They’d all had a front-row seat to the changes in Megatron. They’d witnessed his stern but capable leadership and his emotional lows. Above all, they’d seen his actions speaking to a genuine reformation. Drift would not go so far as to call his former commander a friend, and he was still unable to wholly erase his wariness on what violence could erupt for all the pacifist statements, but his deeply-held belief in the spirituality of their race was certainly validated by the fact that Megatron had finally been enlightened to the treachery of his conquesting ways and had been trying to make amends ever since. 

“We spark-merged and he’s carrying a new spark,” Rodimus mumbled.

Drift paused in the middle of his musing, and ran a quick diagnostic on his audials. “Uh. Hold up. I think I just heard you say- ”

“He regrets it and he doesn’t want anything more to do with me,” Rodimus snapped, field flaring turbulently with a buzzing agitation. “He thinks he’s going to die anyway and he didn’t ask me, not once, what I was thinking or what I want. The bastard always assumes he knows everything!”

Drift modulated his vocalizer with a thought to his conjunx sleeping two rooms away. “You spark-merged with Megatron and he’s carrying a new spark?!” It was perhaps still verging on thunderous, but he hoped fervently that Ratchet wouldn’t wake from that.

“D’ya know, the worst part of it is I can’t just walk away!” Rodimus threw up his hands. “His spark is all sorts of weak, he _needs_ me there, I’ll have to see his insufferable face every single day and he says ‘you can’t expect anything more from me’ as if he thinks I’m going to- going to force him into some sort of _relationship_ now that we have more time together, which is great, more time _is_ great, if only he didn’t have a dampener so far up his af- ” 

“Rodimus,” Drift reached up, caught one of Rodimus’ flailing hands with his own, and tugged it back down firmly. “You. Spark-merged with Megatron? When? _Why?_ ”

Rodimus stared at him, taken by surprise mid-vent. Then his faceplates heated, and he snapped his mouth shut audibly.

Drift gripped the suddenly-twitching hand hard in an involuntary shudder, and shuttered his optics. “Okay. Don’t answer that. Wait, no. You should answer that. But. Give me a moment.” 

Rodimus was one of Drift’s few friends. And out of those, Rodimus was his _closest_ friend. Rodimus had accepted Drift without reservation after he’d defected and changed his name, had welcomed Drift when everyone else had regarded him with suspicion and antipathy. Rodimus had trusted in Drift so easily, so naturally. They’d fought together, played together, and underwent an irreplaceable quest together. In turn, Drift protected Rodimus; it was just what he did. He’d willingly taken the fall and left the Lost Light when Overlord had been discovered because he’d believed Rodimus was instrumental to accomplishing a greater goal, and he’d been right. And Rodimus had been so honest, so sincere and regretful when Drift had returned, that it’d taken nothing at all for them to automatically fall back into the same dynamic.

Rodimus would always be important. 

He’d also always need Drift, because he was apparently incapable of staying away from processor-bending decisions. Unthinkingly, he relaxed, smoothing out Rodimus’ hand in his own.

It was just what he did.

“Alright,” he vented slowly. “Now tell me.”

Rodimus opened his mouth and closed it. Opened it. And closed it again. Gave up with an aggrieved, wordless grumble that sounded like _slag_ , and _Megatron_ , and a few other choice curse words mashed together.

He patted Rodimus’ arm soothingly, redoubling his efforts to keep his field inviting and as non-judgmental as possible. “Do you...like Megatron?” It felt disconcertingly surreal to hear the words that were leaving his vocalizer, on a whole other level that was superimposed against a long-forgotten life on the other side of enemy lines.

Rodimus stiffened next to him for several long nanokliks, before slouching against him again. Unwillingly grumbled another mash of half-formed words.

“Okay, so you like him a _tiny_ bit. You said he didn’t ask you what you wanted before. So. What do you want?”

Rodimus vented heavily, then groaned. It wasn’t a clear answer. Except he had said _relationship_ and _Megatron_ in the same sentence earlier, which was still bearing down on Drift’s logic unit like opposing torrents of information trying to cancel each other out.

Drift thought back to everything else that Rodimus had said, trying to glean whatever insights he could as to why the situation had seemingly spiraled out of control. “You said he thinks he’s going to die. _Is_ he going to die? From his weak spark? Or the new spark?”

The helm against his shoulder shook vehemently. “Nah. Not from his spark, or from the new spark. Not if I have anything to say about it.” After a beat, Rodimus leaned away, fingers of his free hand curling in to scratch at the plating of his palm. “S’ the fragged up Galactic Council. After the new spark’s been harvested, they’ll probably execu- they’ll take Megatron away again.”

Drift reached over and gently straightened Rodimus’ fingers out, ignoring the thin curls of paint that flecked off. “Alright. But more time is good. Right? You both get a second chance to say whatever you need to say to each other.”

Rodimus’ optics flashed. “No. Because the slagger thinks that what we did was a mistake. He said we’d been _foolish_.” The last word was tossed out scathingly.

Drift considered. He thought about their long war, and how affection had had no place in it. “You know, in all the time I was with the Decepticons, I never heard anything about Megatron interfacing. That sort of thing would have gotten around quickly, as you can imagine.” There _had_ been a rumor with Soundwave early on in the movement but this was probably not the time to bring that up. Beyond that, Deadlock had been fairly high in the Decepticon ranks, and he was fairly certain that if there’d concretely been anyone afterwards, anyone at all, he’d have at least heard a whisper of gossip about it. “I think it’s quite possible that he wouldn’t have spark-merged all this time. It would have made him too vulnerable.”

Rodimus barked an unamused laugh, flopping back onto Drift’s shoulder. “Blah. Knowing about Megatron’s old interfacing habits? Not really helping right now.”

“It should,” Drift looked fondly at the top of the red helm. “Because it means that there’s only been you in a long time. Megatron doesn’t make ‘mistakes’ like that, Rodimus. If he does anything, it’s because he lets himself. It means he wanted to, whatever else he might be saying. You obviously matter to him. But even I can understand that he wouldn’t want to tie you down now when he’s headed straight back to the Galactic Council after this is over.”

There was a very long pause. 

“Ugh,” Rodimus’ grumble was much softer this time. “He said he wouldn’t ask anything more of me. That I could walk away, and he wouldn’t blame me for any of it.” His voice trailed off, wistful. “He said he wouldn’t want to interface with me again. Just trying to get rid of me, huh?”

Drift laughed as the field next to his finally warmed, curling open. “What, and you’re going to let Megatron tell you what to do?” he shot back. “That’ll be a first.”

Rodimus snorted against his neck. “I’d forgotten how much I like a challenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent chapter lengths? What's that?
> 
> In other news, work projects have been piling up and severely limiting my writing energy/inspiration. That being said, I hope this was still an enjoyable update!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: There are some graphic depictions of violence in the second half of this chapter courtesy of Minimus' induction into Special Ops' ongoing case, but most of it has been described in the comics before.

A scuffling noise made First Aid look up from his desk. 

It’d been almost a full deca-cycle now since Rodimus had sailed cheerfully back into the medbay as though the argument with Megatron had never happened and sat down obediently for all the tests that First Aid had to run. “Here to _assist_ ,” he’d said, with a vaguely rude gesture in Megatron’s direction. First Aid had been so relieved to see him that he’d avoided asking anything, and then Rodimus had plied him with so many questions while pointedly ignoring Megatron that the entire orn had flown by.

He’d had to explain the theory behind the process in exacting detail, such as how the energy from Rodimus’ spark would be neatly siphoned off in a small, regular stream. The barest vacuum within his crystal when that happened would cause his spark to generate replacement energy for itself, and the rate for external output had been carefully calculated so that it would never overtake the internal renewal. Limiting the transfer in such a controlled way also gave the added benefit of ensuring the additional energy would not overwhelm either Megatron’s overtaxed spark or the new spark that was for now still obliviously and merrily spinning around its carrier’s chamber. 

For all the former Prime’s renowned flippant nonchalance, Rodimus had been remarkably attentive. After First Aid had walked him through the details of the program and the fail-safes on the adjustment levels, he’d asked one last question, so low that it was clear it'd been meant only for First Aid’s hearing, “Are you sure it’s safe for him?”

Rodimus’ back had been turned to Megatron when he’d asked, so it was only First Aid who had noticed when Megatron’s fingers faltered on his datapad at the query.

The installation of the program itself had gone without a hitch. Rodimus had easily lowered his firewalls with an unruffled show of absolute trust that First Aid was almost flabbergasted to receive, and then he’d integrated it into his core systems’ regulatory protocols without so much as a decontaminating scan. But the truly awkward moment had been yet to come. 

First Aid had tried very hard not to feel embarrassed himself when he asked them both to open their chestplates so he could examine their sparks and make sure everything was connected properly for the first transfer. There had been a stilted silence from Megatron, while Rodimus sitting across from him had stared deliberately somewhere in the vicinity of Megatron’s pedes. Neither of them had been willing to make the first move for several discomfiting kliks. Out of inspired desperation, First Aid had finally yanked a simple partition over to act as a privacy screen. It wasn’t completely opaque, but it was better than nothing.

Even through the dark-tinted glass, Rodimus’ spark had filled the room with a brilliant pulsing light. Megatron had turned away and shuttered his optics before opening up his own chestplates. 

It had been fascinating to see a one-percenter spark up close. First Aid had considered politely asking if he could take some reference images, but with Rodimus tapping his foot in ill-concealed restlessness, it hadn’t seemed like a good time, and First Aid supposed he’d have plenty of other opportunities to ask Megatron anyway.

He’d finally connected the cables and, with a vent of excitement and trepidation both, flicked the switch.

At the first touch of Rodimus’ spark energy, First Aid could have sworn he heard the new spark _sing_ , a high and almost-musical frequency that cut sonorously through the air for a nanoklik. Megatron’s optics had flickered and he’d been unable to stop a hard vent, his helm bowing to his knees. For one terrible moment, First Aid had been petrified that the program and all the customized equipment he’d prepared had somehow failed and a spark-merge was happening right in front of him. He’d almost yanked the connecting cable away, but all his years of medical training as he stared at the energy readouts on the scanner had saved him from a rash response. The relief that flooded his systems as the levels stabilized had been near-overwhelming. 

Rodimus had half-leapt up at the sound of Megatron’s stifled gasp and planted one foot around the partition, but he’d luckily mistaken First Aid’s frozen, intent scrutiny of the screen for steely confidence, and had sunk back down after a furtive glance that didn’t quite make it to Megatron’s open chest. The reinforced cable between the clips had been fixed with specialized diodes to ensure the transfer was one-way only, so that Rodimus would not be otherwise affected beyond the energy he was giving.

For all that it wasn’t an outlier, Rodimus’ spark spun so brightly and powerfully that First Aid wondered how much of it had been granted by the brief possession of the Matrix. He certainly had the energy to spare, at least.

Thankfully, it had gotten less awkward since then. Marginally. 

As the orns went by, the partition stayed between the two berths, though First Aid was hard-pressed not to see that Rodimus’ optics strayed repeatedly to it - and through it. But he stayed mostly silent, with the exception of his fingers tapping occasionally or a tuneless hum under his breath. He was probably still stewing in whatever it was Megatron had said to him that first orn, or this was some sort of self-imposed contest. 

The low rate of the energy transfer meant that at least several joors of connection were required daily - it was a long time for not speaking, especially knowing what Rodimus was like. First Aid had debated attempting to get some conversation going by the third orn, but then decided quite firmly that he didn’t want to get in the middle of it and resigned himself to keeping an unobtrusive and watchful eye on both of them. 

He also had to check in at the start of every joor for the entirety of his shift, signing his designation into a system that apparently sent a report to Prowl which confirmed that Megatron was still there in the medbay and not up to anything nefarious. The one time that it had slipped First Aid’s mind - Rodimus had left for the day, Megatron had been deep in recharge, and First Aid had been particularly absorbed in an article on the effects of damaged spark crystals - five armed guards had burst into the room, leveling photon blasters at Megatron’s prone body and almost stopping First Aid’s own spark in shock. 

He’d set a reminder on his internal chronometer after that. 

When he had informed Ratchet about the incident, the older medic had swore and very reluctantly revealed the other final safeguard against Megatron’s escape. 

An inhibitor chip on a sparked mech. First Aid still felt a little like purging when he thought about it, and was fervently thankful that the controls were in Ratchet’s subspace and not Prowl’s. Who knew what could have happened when First Aid had forgotten to report otherwise?

Ratchet checked in every morning, both to cast a second seasoned optic over the numbers from the spark transfer program and to incrementally hand over whatever administrative duties still remained. They had discussed it in detail: Ratchet agreed that First Aid should be in-charge of Megatron’s treatment for at least two deca-cycles so that he could directly deal with emergencies or any issues with the program. After that, they could do a rotation between the two of them. For the same duration, Ratchet would take up First Aid’s general duties in the main hospital, the duties that he had only just started giving up. Although First Aid felt bad that he was delaying Ratchet’s dream of opening his own clinic; he was relieved to have the other medic nearby, especially with everything that was going on. 

Today, as usual, Megatron had been perusing the datapad that First Aid had given him. Prowl had technically forbidden that Megatron was to be allowed any means of communication or entertainment, but First Aid had neatly side-stepped that by disabling any connectivity to the datapad after he’d downloaded several medical textbooks on it, justifying it to himself as education rather than anything remotely amusing or pleasurable. Megatron had made himself into quite the successful medic in the Functionist Universe, from what First Aid could infer - after the first evening of watching his patient stare blankly at the ceiling and struggling with an aching feeling deep in his own processor that recoiled against the unbearable wasting of _time_ , First Aid had decided he might as well make it a mutual learning process.

It’d been a wonderfully beneficial study so far. Megatron, after listening quietly to First Aid’s request to share information on the techniques he’d accumulated from his time in the other universe, had opened with the truly astounding methodology he’d acquired on how one could treat a zero-point affliction. First Aid had witnessed Megatron fixing Drift on the Last Light after the latter had taken a serious blast to the chest, after all; he’d fervently started taking notes. 

First Aid’s enthusiasm had pulled something similar out of Megatron - they’d started having general discussions on ways to improve various levels of medical care, a safe neutral ground that for the most part managed to avoid any mention of the Galactic Council and four million years of infighting. The most recent topic they’d started on was regarding standard triage protocols and how to update them. Megatron had shared an interesting system that took into account twelve more-or-less standard points of vulnerability in the typical Cybertronian frame. It bore some serious thinking about, and would perhaps require some cross-referencing.

Nevertheless, their conversations always ground to a halt when Rodimus entered the medbay, Megatron immediately snapping his EM field in tightly and pulling up the little datapad as if it were a shield. Rodimus would continue to ignore Megatron, but as soon as the partition was slid into place, the flame-red mech would start glancing over to Megatron again in an entirely unconvincing facade of disregard. 

As inappropriate as it was, First Aid couldn’t deny that he found the silent back-and-forth almost _funny_. In a rather painful way, but still. Not that he would ever say it to either of them.

Today, however, it appeared that Rodimus had finally had enough. Because the scuffling noise was the sound of the partition being pushed aside, and Rodimus was suddenly advancing upon Megatron, optics bright, one hand carefully setting aside the cable that was currently connecting their spark chambers so it wouldn’t get in the way. Megatron was steadfastly not looking up, but his fingers were gripping the datapad - any tighter, and First Aid would probably have to requisition a new one.

“Could you teach me how to speak hand?”

That...was not the confrontation that First Aid had expected. He looked back down at the notes on his desk, because it wasn’t eavesdropping if they _knew_ he was there, right?

Megatron worked his intake. “It has been a long while since I practised it. You should ask Drift.”

“I’m not stuck spending the next four joors with Drift. _You’re_ here. We have nothing better to do, and you’ve been reading the same datapad for ages. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been reading the same sentence.” Rodimus shrugged. “Haven’t you always been harping on the fact that I could benefit from expanding my knowledge of, well, _everything_?” He threw himself effortlessly down to sit next to Megatron, so close that their thighs almost touched. Megatron jerked his helm up to stare at Rodimus as if he had recited the entire Tyrest Accord word-for-word without error. 

“...Yes. That is...accurate.” 

The reluctance in Megatron’s voice was matched only by the displeasure emanating from his frame. He shifted a fraction as Rodimus lounged back on his hands, but was clearly and stormily unwilling to beat a visible retreat against...whatever it was that Rodimus was doing.

First Aid was impressed despite himself. Perhaps a prerequisite to be chosen as Prime was that a mech simply had to have a penchant for dangerous situations and matching few survival instincts.

“Unless you'd prefer to read to me that captivating thing you’ve been stuck on - which I don’t prefer, by the way - I'd like to do something different than just sitting here dying of boredom for the next stellar cycle. And no, before you get snippy, that’s not saying in any way that I don’t want to be here.” Rodimus idly looked down at his hands, before lifting one and waggling his fingers almost in Megatron’s face. “That’s not the most terrible way to pass the time, is it, Megs? To do something productive? You seemed to like being a teacher before, on the Lost Light. You’re not going to refuse just because you don’t like me anymore, right? That would be kinda petty of you.”

Megatron closed a large hand over the mocking digits, pushing them down gently in counterpoint to the increasingly annoyed look on his faceplates. “I’m not refusing because I dislike you, Rodimus. I...don’t. I am simply stating that I am not the most suitable for the task.”

Rodimus’ optics dimmed for a beat.

Then he reached out, almost tentatively, and one yellow hand hooked around Megatron’s neck, pulling him down. Megatron froze so completely that it was as if he’d been doused in liquid nitrogen, and Rodimus said something quietly in his audial.

First Aid wasn’t even pretending not to be looking anymore. He fumbled to stand, because it felt as though the threat of violence - or something far too intimate for a medbay - was now imminent, and he did not want to be in the position where he’d have to explain anything to Prowl, or Ratchet, or _anyone_ really-

“Fine,” Megatron bit out. 

***

The dead mechs all had one awful thing in common: their sparks had been ripped straight out of their chassis, and their intakes were all open in a mimicry of what had surely been a last, terrible scream. There were four of them so far, and they had all been found in different alleyways on the outskirts of the city. One had had his helm crushed in, another was missing his brain module, and yet another had been speared through his transformation cog with what looked like a blade. 

It felt nauseatingly and dreadfully familiar. It reminded Minimus starkly of when they had discovered Shock’s grayed-out frame aboard the Lost Light, victim to what had been, before that very moment, a pure myth not only to Minimus but to most if not all of the crew - a sparkeater. He said as much to Jazz.

“A sparkeater, hmm?” Jazz’s helm tilted. “I’ll have to get a copy of that particular report from you. But I’m guessing you must have destroyed or immobilized it before continuing on your quest?”

“Yes.” Minimus tried not to frown too hard at the recollection of how Rodimus had used Rung as bait, how his captain had proceeded to lose his arms by melding them, together with the sparkeater, into the quantum generators, and then Minimus’ own reactive folly in betraying Rodimus and the crew to an unhinged Tyrest afterwards. That had been a clusterfrag of epic proportions by all accounts. 

“Yes..?” Jazz prompted.

“It was destroyed,” Minimus settled on stiffly. “By Rodimus.”

Jazz grinned and clapped him, too hard, on the back. “Seems like an interesting story from your expression, Magnus.”

Minimus fought hard not to let his optics slide to the shell of his armor, neatly sitting in the corner of the large room that apparently served as the Diplomatic Corps’ - no, the _Special Ops’_ \- headquarters. “When I’m not wearing the armor, I’d prefer if you addressed me as Minimus,” he said finally, stifling the urge to look down at his irreducible form. For all his determination, it would still take some effort to master himself without the shield he’d had for so long. 

The illumination in Jazz’s visor rippled cheerfully. “Alright. Minimus. Is there any other information you have on sparkeaters, dead or alive?”

Minimus couldn’t stop his grimace this time. “Perhaps that is another report you should have. At the time that we were discovering the true nature of Cyberutopia - you might have heard that it was in fact the medical hub, Mederi - we were still in the midst of handling the, ah, mutiny led by Getaway.” It still irked Minimus on a visceral level that as law-abiding, as fair, and as correct as Ultra Magnus had striven to be, he’d been shunted out of a ship on which he had been second-in-command, in a _mutiny_. “Getaway joined forces with the Grand Architect and Scorponok. They turned the remaining crew of the Lost Light into sparkeaters with a virus of some kind, and sent them after those of us who had been previously expelled from the ship.”

Jazz whistled under his breath. “So you’re saying that the Decepticons had the knowledge to turn our mechs into sparkeaters, huh? But far as I know, most of the crew made it back here safe and sound. How’d you fix them?”

This was much easier to answer. “While some of us went in pursuit of Getaway, I understand that First Aid studied Mederi’s files and found a cure. I believe he termed it ‘concussive medicine’.”

That earned a startled laugh of disbelief from Jazz. “He knocked them out? It was that easy?”

Minimus crossed his arms, feeling a tiny twitch of annoyance at the implication that the entire situation had been simple; it had been anything but. “I heard there was a kinetic program code and a very large generator involved, but it might be more prudent to confirm this with someone who was actually present when the mutated crew members were neutralized.”

Jazz nodded consideringly. “Both the Grand Architect and Scorponok were offlined by the end of that battle though, right? If we go by what you’ve said and everything points to our mystery murderer being a sparkeater, it can’t be either of them who created it?”

Things like that were never impossible, but… “With the length of time that has gone by since then, it seems improbable that either of them would have anything to do with these cases directly,” Minimus said slowly. “If it was a plan put in motion before they were offlined, I doubt it would have taken such a long time for us to see the results. It is far more likely that the knowledge of how to create sparkeaters was shared within the Decepticon forces and that someone is now using that knowledge to try and cause fear and instability in New Cybertron.” 

Jazz grinned at him, all bared dentae. “Yes, I do think that sounds quite plausible. You’re a veritable wealth of useful information, Minimus. Looks like Prowl was right when he said you'd be able to help me out. Now, any idea what turbofoxes have to do with any of it?”

A pang of grief descended abruptly into Minimus’ emotional processing unit, together with the slightly staticked memory of the telepathically-induced apparition of Dominus at Mederi, telling him earnestly that he was proud of him. He locked it down with an effort. 

“I...have a possible theory. Before Megatron defeated them, there was a prevailing rumor that the Decepticon Justice Division had tamed a wild sparkeater in the shape of a turbofox.” He was glad that he could speak evenly. “That was inaccurate. It was my brother Dominus, undercover in his alt mode. And he had not been ‘tamed’, neither had he been turned into an actual sparkeater. His identity as an Autobot spy had been discovered sometime ago, and as punishment, he’d been...domesticated.” If his voice cracked just a fraction on the last word, he would not admit to it. It was still a kinder reference than having to say out loud that Dominus’ transformation cog had been removed, that his access to his higher faculties had been cruelly impaired by forceful lobotomization. “He later died in Autobot custody while we were trying to ascertain the location of the DJD’s ship through mnemosurgery.” 

He could feel Jazz’s steady gaze on his bowed helm, solid and weighing and sympathetic. But after a beat, his new commanding officer mercifully carried on as though Minimus’ attempt at putting aside his raw and twisted emotions had been wholly successful. 

“Alright, my mech. So I’m going to throw it out there that whoever our murderer is, they don’t know that the rumor was false. If they think that turbofoxes might somehow be predisposed to assimilating the sparkeater virus, then it would make sense that they’re experimenting on them.” Jazz’s visor glimmered thoughtfully. “If that is the case, the victims we’re seeing could all be the result of continued research and testing, or successful mutation?”

It was an intolerable notion. “Yes,” he managed. “That seems logical.”

Jazz’s easy grin had disappeared at some point. The mech in front of him was suddenly a coiled and dangerous presence, field flaring with lethal intent even as he began casually spinning the knife that had appeared in one black servo from nowhere. “Well, Minimus. Guess we’re gonna have to figure out a way to get in on this experiment, hmm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally pulled together enough impetus to complete this chapter. I confess that on top of work, part of the delay was that I wasn't sure which way I wanted the story to go. I've since decided not to overthink it and to remind myself that I'm writing this for fun, so I'll hopefully have less of a block for future chapters ;) Hope everyone is having a great start to October!


	8. Chapter 8

Megatron did not know what had possessed him to agree to Rodimus’ request, other than that it had been an automatic response to the challenging words that Rodimus had murmured in his audial. 

_I’m not **expecting** anything of you, Megs. I heard what you said that time. But you can at least be **civil** , can’t you? _

The new spark had thrummed delightedly at the closeness of its other progenitor’s familiar field, distracting Megatron quite thoroughly from the appropriate response of moving away. In fact, his carrier programming was vigorously pushing him to do the exact opposite; to press nearer under that warm, strong arm curling around his neck, to open up a port, to detach the cable glowing faintly with softly-pulsing blue light and to fully open his chestplates for a more intense merge instead-

“Fine,” he’d gritted out, concentrating all his attention on tamping down the commands before they actually overrode his logic unit. So really, it’d been Megatron’s own critical error. Just another in the unending stream of self-regulatory errors that he had started making when his former co-captain was around.

The thought of having Rodimus so close for a few joors every day - for an entire stellar cycle, no less - had already been torturous. And now to have those clever, nimble fingers sliding over Megatron’s palms, lazily tracing random lines and patterns across all the sensors there… 

They had been going through a simple number series for a joor or so now, mainly because it was the first thing Megatron’s unsettled processor had latched onto that didn’t involve - literally - more complicated hand-holding. Rodimus had jumped into the lesson with single-minded focus, which had always been a rather...endearing look on him. Megatron gave his helm a hard, minute shake, dispelling the disagreeable knot of warmth that had started coalescing in his intake as he looked over the pale faceplates, slightly scrunched. Rodimus had decided now that he was ready to move on to starting a conversation and Megatron was torn between an unwilling pride in how quickly Rodimus was learning and the rapidly-increasing press of regret that he had allowed himself to be placed in this position.

“Drift only showed me how to make basic greetings before,” Rodimus murmured, optics flickering in concentration. “Like...so?”

The small sigh escaped him before he could stop it, and Megatron pulled the shreds of his own focus back together with an effort. “That’s gibberish. I have no idea what you just tried to say.” He vented once, quickly, and then before he could change his mind, shook their twined fingers out and grasped Rodimus’ again loosely. He went through the motions methodically, his right thumb starting at the edge of Rodimus’ hand and then firmly drawing the three broad strokes across the palm that stood for the traditional greeting. He repeated it with his left hand, as slowly and clearly as he could make it. If his touch lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, he did not acknowledge it.

Too late, he realized that Rodimus had gone very still. His gaze flicked up to Megatron’s, optics darkening to cerulean. His glossa peeked out between his lips, and his face was so close-

Megatron did not panic. He did not stare at Rodimus’ mouth. He absolutely did not lick his own lips, intake feeling suddenly dry.

But he did pull himself back, trying not to jerk, before he could forget all the reasons why starting anything with Rodimus was a terrible idea. Rodimus’ own words earlier indicated that he agreed with Megatron’s conclusion. They were here in civil cooperation - and yes, Megatron could be _civil_ on account of the professional relationship and trust they had built - for their accidental new spark, and there was going to be absolutely no interfacing or merging involved, ever again.

He knew all this. He _knew_ it. But his own spark throbbed in his chest, refusing to stop straining towards the warmth it knew was a scant mechanometer away.

His attempt to put some distance between them was unfortunately thwarted by the fact that Rodimus still had a firm grip on his fingers, but at least Rodimus wasn’t looking at him anymore. No, it was worse. Blue optics had drifted down to where the subdued green glow of Megatron’s spark spilled out from behind his partially-opened chestplates, a gap through which the cable connecting them passed through.

“Can I see it?” he whispered.

Megatron stared at him. He did not panic. 

But it was a very near thing.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said lowly, disengaging their hands with perhaps a bit too much force and drawing away. The new spark beat furiously against his chamber in protest, the little indicator on his HUD pulsing unhappily faster.

Rodimus flopped down on the berth, back meeting the surface of the slab with a dull thud. He studied the ceiling as if suddenly fascinated with it, but at the edges of his tightly-held field was the barest tinge of frustration and hurt. Still, he didn’t call Megatron out on his unfairness or start a fight, and Megatron was profoundly thankful for that. 

Or perhaps it would have been better if Rodimus had actually made a fuss in his usual way, and given Megatron an excuse to turn to anger. In the absence of conflict, in this awkward and polite space between them, it was far more difficult to ignore the dull ache in his core whenever he looked at the other mech. Even that excuse of a partition between them hadn’t been able to stop Megatron from being hyper-aware of Rodimus’ nearness, the warmth rising from his frame and the brightness of his armor. He found his optics repeatedly returning to the same wrist port that Rodimus had opened when they’d plugged into each other, a veritable lifetime ago. After the first two orns, he had been tempted to ask First Aid to replace the partition with something more substantial that he would not be able to look through, but the notion of not being able to see Rodimus when he was so close, not even out of the corner of his visual feed, had been strangely unbearable. It was yet another weakness that Megatron was irritably intent on not examining too closely.

“You know, Megs, I get that I have a reputation as a terrible student, but I think I could learn a little more than ‘hello’ in the next two joors.” Rodimus had settled himself in an upright position again, voice bland and all traces of his earlier upset removed as if Megatron had somehow imagined it. 

There was a familiar hint of snark in Rodimus’ tone, and it might have annoyed Megatron more had he not been feeling something uncomfortably akin to guilt. It was obviously unnecessary and ridiculous that Megatron should feel guilty for refusing to let Rodimus see something as intimate as his spark now that they had established that there would be no taking things further - though it wouldn’t be the first time Megatron showed Rodimus something he shouldn’t, his traitorous processor pointed out, and the new spark _was_ Rodimus’ almost as much as Megatron’s.

Megatron had been logical and decisive about where this could - or rather, could not - go. He had simply not accounted for the fact that Rodimus’ continued presence would repeatedly test his resolve, and so exhaustively. 

The comforting flare of Rodimus’ chaotic energy, the reluctantly affectionate look in his optics whenever he thought Megatron wasn’t looking, the tangled radiance and openness and headlong rush of his very existence...all of it made Megatron _want_. It was a want so hazy as to be unreasonable, and Megatron couldn’t have explained what he hoped to get out of it even if anyone were to ask. There was only darkness at the end of his road, and the sooner Megatron stopped turning towards the glimpses of light that Rodimus shone on him, the less disruption there would be to all of their lives.

“Megs?” Rodimus was cocking his helm curiously at him, suddenly closer again, and Megatron startled badly at the hand hovering over his face. He had turned inward, just a nanoklik too long. “You doing okay there?”

Megatron had never been one to avoid confrontation. He’d upended entire societal systems and stormed hostile empires strewn across the galaxy. But here in this moment, the unexpected softness of Rodimus’ voice felt far more perilous than anything he’d ever faced. 

“I...need to rest,” he said brusquely, turning away. “Go back to your berth, Rodimus.”

There was a silence and no movement behind him for several long moments, before Rodimus finally pushed himself up. The sound of steps around the partition felt deliberately slow. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” was all Rodimus said, in a disagreeable tone that somehow still managed to sound concerned.

Megatron lay back and offlined his optics. But his audials continued to be tuned to the near-imperceptible sound of vents a mere arm’s breadth across, and the image of that damnable wrist port appeared in his mind again anyway.

***

By the time the day’s transfer was complete, Megatron still hadn’t moved. If not for First Aid’s absolute calm as he moved between them, checking the scanners and disconnecting the cables with impersonal efficiency, Rodimus might have started to, well, panic was a strong word. But he might have started to feel _agitated_. There, that was better.

But since First Aid wasn’t saying anything, it probably meant that Megatron was doing just fine. Which in turn probably meant that he was just ignoring Rodimus after he’d impulsively asked if he could see the new spark. Granted, Rodimus hadn’t really thought that request through before the words had slipped out unbidden, but Megatron’s fingers stroking over his palm in that slow and careful way had made any rational processing fly out the window. 

And now that Megatron had started being stubborn about something else, he would of course continue to be that way for ages afterwards again. That slagger. 

It had been a real exercise in patience that Rodimus had not known he’d possessed to see how long it would take before Megatron would cave and speak to him after their initial fight - if it could even be counted as such. And then Rodimus had had to take the first step anyway when it’d become abundantly clear that Megatron would be fine sitting there poring over his damned datapad until the very end.

Throughout the energy transfer procedures, Rodimus rarely noticed the spark energy leaving his frame beyond a barely-imperceptible pull, so faint as to not even warrant an alert on his HUD. He knew that it was the way it was supposed to be, but it wasn’t what his programming _wanted_. The smallest burgeoning of another EM field, hard to miss when he knew what he was looking for, called to him, and his coding was insistently prompting him to assign it the highest priority and to direct more resources towards its building. 

Maybe it’d been a good thing that Megatron hadn’t let him see after all. Rodimus might have physically thrown himself at the other mech with how frustrated he was feeling.

His comm beeped, and in his irritation, Rodimus didn’t think to check the designation tagged to the call. Right before he answered, he glanced back, and then moved away towards the door of the medbay. In the infinitesimally small chance that Megatron was feeling genuinely unwell and was just neglecting to inform First Aid, Rodimus wouldn’t risk disturbing him further.

:: _Rodimus. Report to Command Headquarters immediately._ ::

He couldn’t help the hiss of annoyance at the clipped order, but at least he was instantly distracted from the lingering urge to climb onto Megatron and smack him. :: _Really, Prowl? Right now? What for?_ ::

:: _An assignment. And yes, now. I believe your regular appointment at the hospital was finished 1.2 breems ago._ ::

:: _You’re a slagging spy drone is what you are_ :: Rodimus snapped. Prowl didn’t dignify that with a comment. :: _And what assignment are you talking about? I don’t report to you anymore._ ::

Prowl’s voice was deceptively calm, the way it got whenever the tactician was about to say something that would either rankle or lure. :: _Are you not still an Autobot? A former Prime? Wouldn’t you like to be of some use in these important times? Not to mention that when your current...predicament is over, a period of service would go a long way towards approving an application for a ship. Or expediting a selection to be part of an official spacefaring crew again._ ::

Rodimus couldn’t help it; his jaw clenched automatically. :: _Yea. Yea, I’m sure it would go a long way. And what if I don’t feel like doing whatever it is you’ve got in mind?_ ::

Even over comms, he received the impression of a disappointed look. :: _Surely, Rodimus, you know how many of your former crew members still look up to you. You should be setting an example - a lack of motivation can be surprisingly pervasive. It could result in all manner of undesirable outcomes. So many mechs fall so easily back on the wrong side of the law._ ::

He snorted. :: _There is no way you are going to put that on me. We’re all grown mechs here. If Whirl wants to break another window or Brainstorm wants to blow something up, that’s their choice._ ::

:: _Then there’s the perpetual issue of distributing our limited resources_ :: Prowl mused idly, as though Rodimus hadn’t replied, :: _We’re contributing quite a lot to the hospital. Would you say that those resources could be put to more efficient use than, perhaps, feeding and minding a public enemy?_ ::

His fist creaked, fingers balling tightly against his palm at his side. :: _Cut the slag. Optimus won’t let you do anything like that._ :: At least he hoped not, but Optimus had become even harder to read than before, going on from the last time Rodimus had seen him when Megatron had been released from prison. 

:: _I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about_ :: Prowl answered coolly. :: _Now, are you coming or not?_ ::

Could he risk even the small chance that Prowl would do something to further negatively impact Megatron’s welfare? He loosened his fist with a conscious effort, but it still took several nanokliks before he could speak again without shouting. :: _Whatever. Yes. Fine._ :: 

The comm cut. 

Before Rodimus could do something thoughtless, like smash his helm into the wall, First Aid came up quietly beside him, keeping his voice low. “Did something happen?”

He barked a short laugh. “Nah.” His gaze dropped to the cable, now neatly coiled in the medic’s hands. “Is Megs alright?”

First Aid nodded, visor winking reassuringly. “Everything’s fine. If he seems to tire easily, it’s just because his wires are fairly worn down, so the basic functioning charge generated by his spark doesn’t get circulated as smoothly or thoroughly as, say, yours or mine. But your spark energy has been helping a lot from what I can see, not just for the new spark but overall. I might still want to replace some of those wires if he consents though.”

Rodimus frowned. “Tell me if he doesn’t. I’ll talk him into it.” For all that he had become a medic, Megatron was proving to be awful at taking care of himself. But it made sense that Megatron’s internal parts were worn out; 819 years spent as part of the resistance in the Functionist universe, where available resources had probably been scarce and would have gone to frontline fighters first, would do that. 

First Aid shot him a sidelong look that felt measuring, but the facemask effectively hid his expression. “Sure. Will you be leaving now?”

Remembering what Prowl had said sent a fresh wave of aggravation down his backstrut. “Yea, I got a- a thing. Same time tomorrow?”

First Aid nodded, then turned and headed back towards his desk. Rodimus took the last few steps towards the exit but hesitated, helm turning against all conscious thought to take in the sight of Megatron, still prone and silent on his berth. An irrational need to return to his side and do something absurd - like Primus forbid, check on his ventilations as though Rodimus even knew what to listen for - almost consumed him. He managed to stop himself pointedly before his pedes could move in that direction. First Aid had just said Megatron was fine. Rodimus reminded himself that he was still just a little bit irked at Megatron too, and two could play the silent game for a while.

He spun back around and jabbed at the access panel, letting himself out. 

At the end of the corridor, there was another door that had been specially installed, keyed to the specific biometrics of those who were allowed access. He pressed his palms to the screens on the side and it beeped after a moment, allowing him through. 

As he walked through the door hastily, it slid shut behind him with a decisive hiss, and he nearly trod on the mech who had been approaching from the other side.

“Minimus?” he asked disbelievingly. “What are you doing here?” His gaze tracked up to the other bot standing right behind his former second-in-command, a black and white mech who returned his scrutiny with a lazy smile and a greeting pulse of light across his blue visor. There was a faint impression of having seen him before, but Rodimus couldn’t remember the stranger’s designation off the bat. The new mech felt immediately _dangerous_ in a way he couldn’t logically explain. 

Protectiveness surged and he stalled before he could even think, planting himself firmly between the newcomers and the medbay behind him. “Who are _you_?” he demanded.

His stance must have been more belligerent than he thought because Minimus held up a steady placating hand. “It’s alright, Rodimus. This is Jazz. He is my direct superior at the- ” and then he coughed, which was so completely uncharacteristic for Minimus that Rodimus’ optics narrowed. “-the Diplomatic Corps. We just wanted to come and, ah, see how Megatron was doing.”

Minimus was a terrible liar. Probably because Minimus usually didn’t bother to lie - at least not since his irreducible form had been revealed - which meant that he was doing so now because Jazz was there. Before Rodimus could open his mouth to call Minimus out, the notification of a private comm popped up on his HUD from none other than Minimus himself, glyphs flashing with a priority ping.

:: _It’s only asking some questions, Captai- Rodimus. Nothing underhanded is going to happen. You know I won’t allow any violations._ ::

He did know that. It made him relax a fraction before suspicion stole in again. :: _What’s all this about?_ ::

Jazz’s hand landed casually on Minimus’ shoulder, and Minimus’ faceplates took on a decidedly pinched squeeze. 

“Please, don’t let us keep you,” the black and white mech purred, nudging Minimus forward. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

Rodimus stared down hard at Jazz, processor whirring. He felt childishly like insisting on staying, but Jazz had reminded him rather pointedly now of Prowl waiting at Command Headquarters and the thinly-veiled threat if he didn’t show. 

There was another ping on his HUD. Minimus was deliberately not looking at him, but there was a serious expression on the green faceplates. :: _I can’t talk about the business at hand, but I **can** say it has nothing to do directly with Megatron. Also, I am here as much in the capacity of a friend as anything else, Rodimus. Do not worry._ ::

There was a firm reassurance in there that Rodimus had trusted for years - and still trusted.

Minimus would keep his word. It was _Minimus_.

He vented once, noisily, and then with a sharp nod to his former second and one last flinty-opticked glance at Jazz, he strode towards the lift that would take him to the ground floor. 

The Command Headquarters wasn’t that far, but it would still take around two to three breems to drive there. A building had been commandeered a sensible distance from the hospital so that in the event of an attack on either, the other would be out of a typical blast radius. Wartime thinking would never be switched off, not with Prowl. 

He transformed once he was outside, noticing distractedly that his paint was beginning to look scuffed. Rodimus hadn’t done much maintenance since the quest had ended; he’d been feeling too directionless to focus on any one thing for long, and then there had been Megatron’s entire situation pulling at his processor. His thoughts continued to flit about now.

When Optimus and Prowl had decided to move their base away from the increasingly anti-factionalist Cybertron where Starscream continued to rule, New Cybertron had been the obvious choice to stay close enough for diplomatic relations while still keeping a respectful distance. As a natural consequence, anyone who still felt a shred of attachment to the badge (at least, on the Autobot side) had followed Optimus here. Because of course the Decepticons were still out there - wherever ‘out there’ was - and that meant that Optimus couldn’t just lay down his self-imposed sense of duty. It was obvious in the way he carried himself and in the things he said: that the weight of all his previous commands and the names of those who had perished carrying them out continued to bear heavily on him, as if they existed in the present rather than the past. 

Still, while the enemy was not actively attacking, it was easier living among a populace who had no idea of who the Autobots or Decepticons were and who didn’t have the memories of the atrocities committed in the world they now found themselves in. It wasn’t that those of the original Cybertron were unaware that the new Cybertronians had had their own war against the Functionist Council - but in a stunning reversal of psychology, there was detachment instead of commiseration, as though this entire other war had been written in a history book that someone was now reading to them. It provided a semblance of escape into an alternate reality, one where the Autobots were not looked upon with growing suspicion by a progressively larger neutral population. 

It was all but laughable sometimes, when Rodimus thought briefly about it. The chance had come for them all to finally find some way to move forward, and no small number of his old teammates were unwilling to put their blasters down and take it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a while since I wrote anything for this fic - long story short, I got into a minor accident that ended up taking most (if not all) of my physical and emotional reserves for a few weeks, and had to have surgery to fix things. But everything went well and I finally managed to sit down and write this chapter now. Hope you all enjoy it :)

First Aid had received a ping from Prowl at the time of his last check-in, and so was prepared that there would be visitors to the medbay - though he hadn’t been expecting to receive them not five kliks after Rodimus had left. The directive had been short and clipped: _Megatron is to assist in an ongoing investigation. Two agents will be present._

That didn’t mean First Aid wasn’t startled when a very familiar, tiny green mech showed up.

“Ultra Magn- Minimus?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Since when had Minimus started working for Prowl? The former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord had been famously stubborn about defending Megatron against the Galactic Council by the end, and now Minimus was here to interrogate Megatron on Prowl’s orders?

“First Aid,” Minimus inclined his helm politely. “It is good to see you are well.” And then more hesitantly, peering behind First Aid and probably catching sight of pedes on the berth, “Is Megatron awake?”

“Oh!” First Aid glanced over his shoulder. Megatron had slipped into a light recharge earlier, but it wouldn’t be too difficult to rouse him. There were only so many joors in a cycle a mech could recharge, after all. “Let me check. I wasn’t expecting you and- ” his gaze slid over to the black-and-white mech who, for all that he towered over Minimus, had almost completely slipped First Aid’s notice, so quiet and stealthy he’d been. “- and your partner quite so early.”

Minimus’ optics slid uncomfortably to the other mech for a nanoklik, then swung back to settle on First Aid. “This is Jazz,” he said at last. “Yes, he- we thought it might be best to get some information as soon as possible, if Megatron were up to it.”

First Aid frowned. “You’re just speaking with him, right? You won’t remove him from this medbay?” Surely Prowl and Optimus hadn’t changed their minds so quickly. And First Aid didn’t want to start an argument, but if push came to shove and he needed backup to keep Megatron here, he knew Ratchet would be finishing up his shift in the main hospital below anytime now and could be commed at a moment’s notice. “He’s really not fit for travel.” Or prison.

Minimus nodded, sharp and firm. “We are just speaking with him. Isn’t that correct, Jazz?”

Jazz had finally moved up to stand beside Minimus; his gaze also wandered behind First Aid, no doubt seeing Megatron lying there. “Yes, of course,” he smiled sweetly, and there was something so patently off about the expression that warnings went off in First Aid’s processor. He took a step back instinctively, before he remembered himself and straightened his backstrut with an effort. This was _his_ medbay.

“Wait here,” he said, trying to sound equally firm. “I’ll get him up.”

He turned without further delay, ducking behind the dark screen that he hadn’t yet put away after Rodimus had left. Megatron’s ventilations were even and shallow, cycling away the barest traces of heat from his frame. A typical healthy mech, let alone one carrying and as densely-armored as Megatron, should have had far more active autonomic functions going on at any given moment. First Aid would really have to see about replacing those bits of tired circuitry. 

Waking Megatron was always a somewhat dicey affair as well. First Aid placed a hand gently on top of his patient’s far larger one, then shook him slightly. “Megatron?” he called, making sure to project calm in his field before extending it forward so that it brushed the edges of the dark and troubled EM field before him. “You have visitors.”

Red optics onlined in a snap, and First Aid pretended not to notice the instinctive jerk under his hand, the frame drawing away automatically from his touch. Megatron calmed almost immediately as his systems whirred up and recognition set in of First Aid and his surroundings. Pushing himself to a sitting position, Megatron’s glance darted towards the berth that Rodimus usually occupied, then slid away when it found it empty. His attention was quickly diverted, however, by Minimus stepping out from behind the screen.

Even though the minibot’s arms were crossed smartly behind his back, the straight-backed, forward pose was comfortingly familiar. Relief and something akin to warmth filled Megatron’s field, and he nodded in greeting. 

“Well then,” First Aid stepped back, leaving them to it. “I’ll be in my personal quarters across the hall. Ping me if you need me.”

***

When the doors to the medbay had slid shut behind First Aid, Minimus stepped forward, looking around for a chair. “I’m afraid this is not entirely a social visit,” he started, a little awkwardly. Of course, this was when Jazz decided to swing around the screen as well and set himself down unceremoniously on the berth opposite Megatron. Megatron fixed a gaze on the black-and-white mech, and his lips thinned.

“Is that so?” the ex-warlord’s voice was measured. “Then to what do I owe this...pleasure?”

“Oh, I very much doubt this will be pleasurable,” Jazz cut in smoothly, visor raking over Megatron in upfront evaluation. “You’re not exactly my first choice of evening company, and I’m guessing I’m not yours either. Jazz, at your service,” this last was said almost-mockingly with a small flourish. 

Megatron paused, obviously taking a moment to run through his archival banks. “Your designation is somewhat familiar, though we may perhaps not have met in person. If my intelligence officers were right, you worked as a special operative directly under Prowl during the war?”

Jazz’s grin, all dentae, had no mirth in it. “Oh, you speak as though the war is already over. You may have come to us with your head bowed, Megatron, but the army you raised and set loose on the universe is still running amok. Didn’t you know that?”

Megatron’s gaze sharpened. “Is this about something the Decepticons have done now? I can assure you, I had no part in it. My renunciation of the Decepticon cause- ” and there was no small amount of self-derision in his voice, “- was quite public. In case you had the misfortune of missing the telecast at the end of my first trial.”

Jazz’s visor gleamed. “You and I both know that renunciation was scripted. Who’s to say you aren’t still pulling the strings? In fact, I must tell you I’m having trouble believing this entire ‘new spark’ business, to be honest. I don’t suppose you’d let me see it for myself? I’d love to verify that you’re not just stringing along the tender sparks of our most gullible Autobots.” His hands hovered too-casually around the tops of his thighs. No doubt there was a cache or two of weaponry there that he would jump to use if Megatron opened his chestplates.

“That’s quite enough.” With perhaps a bit more force than was necessary, Minimus firmly set down the chair he’d pulled over from behind First Aid’s desk, right between the two of them. “We miss the point of our presence here, Jazz.” 

He was not above speaking over a ranking officer when there was an obvious deviation from professionalism, and he still didn’t quite know what to make of Jazz’s flippant, near-savage attitude. The expectation of recklessness was like working with Rodimus all over again, except that where Rodimus had been loud and impulsive, Jazz was watchful and coiled, like a spring ready to snap loose at any moment. Rodimus had also never tended towards actually offlining a mech for all his brashness, while for Jazz...Magnus had a feeling he didn’t really want to find out.

In any case, there were strict rules around what an interrogator was permitted to say to a prisoner. Those rules might have rarely been enforced during wartime, but in Minimus’ presence now at least, there would be no breach. “I feel I must point out that your request to view Megatron’s spark was extremely inappropriate,” he murmured. “The absence of his primary physician notwithstanding, your suggestion of the falsehood of these current circumstances casts significant aspersions on the skill and impartiality of Ratchet and First Aid.”

“Yes, both of whom were on the Lost Light, one big happy family,” Jazz muttered back. Minimus shot him a stern look, and Jazz raised both hands in fake capitulation. “Right. Well, you’re right, Minimus, this isn’t the point of why we’re here. So,” his helm swiveled back to Megatron, who was staring expressionlessly at him, “Scorponok, sparkeaters, Decepticon science-types. Tell us everything you know about that.”

Minimus sighed. That was hardly an encompassing introduction or summary, and made no clear ask of what they actually wanted to know. “May I provide a background on this, Jazz?”

Jazz hadn’t taken his gaze off Megatron since he’d entered the room, and he didn’t do so now even when Minimus was speaking to him. The black-and-white mech shrugged, airily waving an assent. “Sure.”

Minimus presented the facts first, going through the number of cases, the dates when the incidents had been reported, the discrepancies between the causes of death and the seemingly random sightings of turbofoxes. He specified the similarities to the individual sparkeater case that had occurred when the Lost Light had first launched, and then later again when the outcast crew had been up against the Grand Architect and their own mutated teammates. Megatron had not been on the ship for either of these situations, but Minimus knew that he had perused all of Minimus’ comprehensive reports when he had first come on board as co-captain and also later, when he had returned to the ship from the Functionist universe and wanted to catch up on everything the crew had been through in his absence. 

Finally, he shared his theory on Scorponok, that the technology which had been used to turn the crew into sparkeaters might have been shared with a number of select, high-ranking Decepticons. He managed to mention Dominus without stumbling, and emphasized that the tenuous connection he had thought of was merely a hypothesis. 

Throughout Minimus’ outlining of the case, Megatron remained mostly impassive. His optics darkened slightly only when Minimus spoke about Dominus and the DJD, but that was all the reaction he gave outwardly. 

“So you see,” Minimus finished, “It would be extremely helpful to know who might have had access to Scorponok’s research or been a part of his inner circle before he defected to the Grand Architect. Nothing is conclusive thus far, but the knowledge of how to create a sparkeater remains rare, and as far as I know, no Autobot scientist has attempted to research the process - it’s a rather terrible concept and mostly relegated to myth still.”

With no small amount of deliberation, Megatron shifted so that he was facing Minimus fully, turning away from Jazz at the same time - an action that somehow managed to convey both an impressive lack of caring and a blind show of trust in the same instant - though whether it was trust in Minimus, or in the fact that he was in an Autobot medbay and would not come to harm, or even that Jazz wouldn’t break all the unspoken rules, Minimus could not say.

“Thank you for the information, Minimus,” Megatron started slowly. “I think I should begin by asking if you are aware of Scorponok’s history with the Decepticons?”

Minimus chanced a glance over his shoulder at Jazz but the other mech was unmoving, still staring at Megatron silently. In mild exasperation, Minimus focused back on Megatron. “No,” he answered, after a quick referral through the related memory files he possessed. “I don’t believe I have the full story. I took him into custody once and he was imprisoned in Garrus 9, but I understand that when Overlord seized the facility, he was one of those who were freed.”

Megatron steepled his fingers, optics dimming in thought. “Even though he joined the cause, Scorponok never believed in it. He wanted strength above all else, not equality. He actually overthrew me at some point after one of my first... _battles_ with Optimus,” the distaste in his voice clearly conveyed it had been a loss, and there was a muffled snort from Jazz behind Minimus, which Megatron thankfully ignored. “He went as far as exiling me after that particular debacle, and then embarked on a rampage that destroyed many Decepticon warriors in his quest to gather personal power. As you can imagine, this did not endear him to the troops. It enabled me to return as the rightful leader in a very short time. In other words, there was very little tying Scorponok to any true Decepticon - he had very few whom he considered as peers, let alone comrades.”

“Was he not with Shockwave for a while?” Jazz’s question was asked offhandedly, though the accusatory undertone was hard to miss. “Scorponok must have come into contact with all the usual suspects under Shockwave at some point, even if he wasn’t _friends_ with them.” There was the mockery again, loaded in a word that managed to imply many unsavory things about Decepticons in general for how little it actually said. Minimus was starting to feel embarrassed by the uncivil turns the questioning kept taking, but had to forcibly remind himself that his personal connection with Megatron gave him no room to speak. 

“I am not clear on the details,” Megatron said finally, and there was a slightly aggrieved air at the admittance. “Shockwave, as you well know, was full of his own machinations both for and against me, with his most recent plot decidedly _against_ me. I have not been privy to his thoughts for a very long time, and he hid his actions well even against Soundwave’s talents. But as you say, I would not be surprised if Scorponok took up with those of a more self-serving slant, not all of whom were not necessarily Decepticons. Names like Jhiaxus, or Bludgeon, even Flame, come to mind.”

Minimus frowned. “Was Jhiaxus not destroyed during the same incident where your body was used as a portal by Shockwave? As for Bludgeon, I am quite certain he was defeated when Optimus returned from the Dead Universe. Flame…” he scrolled through his archives quickly, then stopped short. “Flame was a convicted Autobot scientist imprisoned on Garrus 9 as well? He- he was on the Lost Light with us for a time!”

Megatron nodded. “He was with the Grand Architect and Scorponok before he decided to change sides in the middle of the battle with the Functionists. I am not suggesting he is the one responsible for these murders that you speak of. But perhaps he might have more recent information to fill in the blanks. I’m afraid my sojourn in the other universe caused rather significant erasures in my older databanks when I rewrote them with more pertinent knowledge.” 

“Oh yea?” Jazz’s drawl was lazy but sharp. Before Minimus could react, Jazz had pushed himself up and off the berth in one smooth motion, coming to stand over them and all but boxing Megatron in. “And what was that, how to restart wars and actually win them?”

“No,” Megatron’s tone was remarkably even in response, not rising to the provocation. Even seated, he was almost of a height with Jazz standing, and he looked straight at the other mech. “The new data was of the medic variety. It was my primary function in that universe.”

“Thank you, Megatron,” Minimus stood up hurriedly as well, turning a deaf audial to the disbelieving scoff that had greeted the reply. “This gives us a new lead at least.” 

“One other thing,” Megatron said slowly. “He has now thoroughly changed allegiances, of course, but Brainstorm had always been less a Decepticon of loyalty rather than one of convenience. You and I both know how gifted he is. If I recall it correctly, I do believe he mentioned in passing - a long time ago - that he’d tried to develop a weapon that could change those shot with it into sparkeaters. I do not know if he ever succeeded, but perhaps he could advise his hypotheses on the more physiological aspects of the transformation, if it would help with your cases.”

“That’s a good idea,” Minimus nodded thoughtfully. It might be more conjecture from Brainstorm than anything, but if anyone would have some obscure knowledge, it would be the mercurial scientist. 

The line of questioning had dwindled, and they would probably be taking their leave... Minimus was very conscious of Jazz, looming too close to not hear even a whisper, and his embarrassment peaked. But he also couldn’t stop himself from pressing ahead with the question he’d wanted to ask from the get-go of this interview, the first time he had seen his former co-captain and friend since the trial where Megatron had collapsed against him. “Are you...well?”

Megatron looked at him then, properly. The red optics gleamed, just a fraction brighter, and the barest trace of a genuine if weary smile tugged at the worn gray faceplates. It was gone so quickly that Minimus thought he might have imagined it, if not for the nudge of warmth that pressed from the field in front of him. 

“Yes. I could not ask for better care than what I have received. Thank you for your concern, Minimus.”

They left without further ceremony after that. Minimus’ processor was split between distractedly wondering how he would start tracking Flame down and debating whether or not to bring up his superior officer’s obvious lack of neutrality during the questioning. He was startled when Jazz suddenly clapped a companionable hand down over his shoulder, the other mech’s entire facade of stiff agitation dropping like a heavy mesh curtain.

“Well! Looks like you might be right, Minimus - seems like big bad Megatron’s really changed. I’ve never seen him let anyone get away with that kind of ribbing - and trust me, I’ve eavesdropped in on enough Decepticon meetings to remember clearly when one wrong word would’ve been met with a blaster to the face. But he didn’t even move a finger when I crowded him while he was sitting down. Those are some seriously rewired defensive protocols.”

Minimus was too flabbergasted to pull away from the touch. “You were being rude _on purpose_?” he asked in disbelief. “You wanted to see if he’d _attack_ you?”

Jazz shrugged, then grinned down at him. “Can’t believe what they say till ya see it for yourself, right? I’m not saying I trust him, but I think I’ve seen enough that I can say the mech’s different from what he used to be. Anyway, if he isn’t just misdirecting, we have some work to do. Tell me about this Flame.”

***

Prowl watched as Rodimus paced around his office, discontent emanating off every panel. He wondered, not for the first time, how the Matrix - the sacred, possibly sentient embodiment of their ancestral leadership - had chosen this mech before. Where Optimus was collected, Rodimus was emotional. Where Optimus made hard, far-sighted choices, Rodimus made choices that burned with theatrical heroics and naivete. And still, behaving like that, he’d managed to save all cold-constructed mechs from Tyrest’s scheme, Prowl himself included. He and his crew had all but single-handedly won the war against the Functionists. It was hard to remember sometimes just how integral Rodimus had been to so many decisive battles and watershed moments when Prowl knew this was the same mech who had bowed so easily to a dare, who had gone off gallivanting across the universe on a quantum ship gifted to him by a former Decepticon and now, to top it all off, had sparked up the single deadliest threat that had thwarted Autobot victory in their civil war of four million years.

When Rodimus finally spoke, his voice, not hiding one iota of its offended rebelliousness, diverted Prowl neatly away from his musing. “You’re sticking me with these ridiculous tasks and the Constructicons so you can keep an optic on me?”

“It’s nothing that will interfere with your attendance at the hospital,” Prowl said dismissively. “And overseeing the transfer of building technology from our planet to New Cybertron would be a productive use of your time.” _Which you would otherwise spend doing nothing_ was heavily implied in the seconds of ensuing silence that fell between them.

Rodimus continued to stare at him for a long moment, then snapped, “Can’t you just forget about me?” When Prowl met his glare evenly, he continued, throwing his hands up, “I do have my own life, you know. Things!”

Prowl sighed inwardly, but didn’t blink. “I did,” he conceded. “Forget about you.” Momentarily. “But upon factoring in your previous unexpected involvements in...many issues, my tactical unit calculated a high probability of you doing something to disrupt the current ordered state of things if left alone.” He forestalled Rodimus’ look of outraged objection with a raised hand. “Even inadvertently. So here we are. If you’re not up to no good, then you won’t see this as a problem.”

Rodimus slouched over, looking extremely displeased. “I’m not up to anything. But nobody wants to be _watched_ , do they?”

Prowl resisted the urge to sigh again. Talking to Rodimus was like dealing with a particularly dense piece of coding sometimes. “It’s not about what you want,” he set out cuttingly. “It’s about taking into consideration all the parameters of an inconvenient situation. I’ve balanced this course of action as best as I can so far with respect to Optimus’ choice to save the new spark. I’ve included the very real issue of personnel management and resource distribution. You might find this hard to imagine, but the daily running of our planet does not actually revolve around you. You are merely being put to use in the best manner possible.”

Rodimus’ jaw shut with a clack. “Wow. Wow. You really have a way to make a mech feel appreciated there.”

Prowl couldn’t stop the automatic grind of his dentae at the sarcasm. Was nothing going through that thick helm? 

“Don’t make me make threats I don’t want to carry out,” he bit out. “There are bigger things at stake here than your pride, Rodimus. You can get in line, or you can get out. But I think we both know you’d prefer not to go anywhere at this time. A proper arrangement can be mutually beneficial for all of us.”

Rodimus was eyeing him in a dubious, recalcitrant way that made Prowl’s fingers tighten on the edge of the desk. Prowl forced himself to let go. It was a bad habit.

“...Fine,” Rodimus clipped out. He had paced all the way back to the door, his restlessness making Prowl twitchy as well despite his usual iron control over himself. “I’ll go along with this ‘proper arrangement’ of yours. Anything else?”

Thank Primus. Prowl had not known there were so many ways in which a mech could deflect during one conversation. “Scrapper will stop by your quarters tomorrow at the sixth joor to brief you and take you to the sites we’re working on. Dismissed.”

Rodimus jabbed at the access panel perfunctorily, then stepped out. His words floated back to Prowl over his shoulder. “You’re still an aft. And I’m not opening my door before the seventh joor. So Scrapper can come then, or sit outside in the cold alone.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does something about the approaching festive season make work productivity drop? Why yes, yes it does. Can't complain too much about it if it means I have more energy for writing self-indulgent chapters though ;) Happy December, everyone!

The first few orns that Rodimus appeared at the medbay covered in grime, Megatron managed to avoid asking the obvious. It wasn’t hard; Rodimus would trudge in at the appointed time and then head straight for the wash-rack that was technically located in Megatron’s private quarters. Megatron had debated whether or not to make a point of boundaries, but seeing the streaks of dust and the twist of annoyance on the pale faceplates had made him relent without a word.

After a sizzling rinse that would send copious amounts of steam out from under the door, Rodimus would appear again, looking as strut-weary and tight-lipped as Megatron had ever seen him. Then he’d collapse onto the second berth where First Aid would hook them up, and actually make use of the contact points to recharge. 

The upside of Rodimus’ exhaustion was that he had stopped trying to nudge Megatron into as many conversations as before. But as he lay there, scuffed red arms draped over offlined optics, Megatron couldn’t help observing the increasing stiffness in the set of Rodimus’ spoiler and the blooming of newer scrapes over his armor that hinted at some form of manual work. 

As a few more orns went by, he noticed the beginning of an uneven judder in the joints of yellow fingers that usually indicated a need for a thorough cleaning and oiling. Whatever Rodimus had started doing was something he wasn’t used to, and equally uncharacteristically, he wasn’t complaining about it.

Megatron would sooner shoot himself than engage in frivolous small talk, but other things were easy enough to fix. 

One cycle after his former co-captain had left, all but dragging himself out, Megatron mentioned to First Aid - albeit with no small reluctance and as casually as he could - that some polishing cloths, solvents and lubricant for basic maintenance would not go amiss in the medbay. And if it wasn’t a great inconvenience, a few of the finer brushes meant for smaller hinges. 

The light in First Aid’s visor had flickered in confusion for only a nanoklik before understanding rippled across it, and Megatron had had to abruptly excuse himself before the nagging feeling in his chest became an odd heat in his face. It was a medic’s prerogative to be aware of any weakening chinks of armor in the mechs around him, he told himself, and to take preemptive steps to solve the problem. There was nothing inappropriate or personal about what he’d asked for.

The next time Rodimus emerged from his scalding shower and headed towards his usual spot, he stopped short. The simple supplies had been placed on the berth, and as Rodimus’ optics zeroed in on them and then glanced up in startlement, Megatron tried not to feel too discomfited. 

“Are these...for me?”

“Don’t ask silly questions,” Megatron said gruffly. 

The very corners of Rodimus’ mobile mouth were pulling up. Megatron hadn’t realized how much he’d missed seeing it; something warmed and settled in his core.

First Aid popped up like clockwork, armed with the transfer cables and pointedly ignoring Rodimus’ growing grin as he continued to stare at Megatron. Megatron dropped his gaze and busied himself with triggering his chestplates loose instead. First Aid moved between them with practiced ease, fastening the clips carefully to Rodimus first and checking the levels of his spark energy on the connected handheld device. 

As the medic tapped thoughtfully through the readings, Megatron could still feel Rodimus’ optics upon him. The flame-red mech was considering him openly now, and Megatron was caught in a sudden familiar tug of fond exasperation at the blatant observation.

First Aid clucked once behind his facemask, which usually meant he had adjusted Rodimus’ spark energy down to the appropriate level for transference. Red fingers skimmed deftly over Megatron’s chestplates to the gap where the pulsing green light of his spark emanated - it was just as First Aid always did, and Megatron was so used to it by now that he almost missed the way Rodimus’ optics dropped from his face and narrowed on the movement. 

He hadn’t realized that Rodimus might not have watched so closely before, especially with the way Megatron had generally made it a point to turn away. As the medic’s hand dipped between his open chestplates to fasten the clips, hovering right above the exposed vulnerability of Megatron’s spark, Rodimus’ field suddenly swelled outward and _snapped_.

At the threat that he could suddenly sense behind him, First Aid froze.

Megatron tried not to gape in surprise. 

The heavy and possessive wave of _outrage-anger- **fear**_ lasted only a nanoklik before it dissipated thoroughly, and then Rodimus was shaking his head and stepping away, muttering something about stupidity under his breath and swinging his gaze back to the innocuous supplies on the berth. 

Still cautiously not moving, First Aid’s visor pulsed a rapid and silent query at Megatron, who watched Rodimus and waited for several moments more. When nothing further happened, Megatron nodded slowly for First Aid to continue.

What had gotten into his former co-captain? Was he so drained that he’d become confused and somehow lost track of where he was and what they were doing? It was worrying, to say the least.

First Aid finally finished connecting the clips, and the intimate warmth of Rodimus’ core flowed immediately over Megatron in a rush. Megatron had gotten much better at not reacting outwardly to the all-encompassing sensation the same way he’d mortifyingly done that first time, but the new spark whirled frenetically in his chest, all but thoroughly absorbing the first full pulses into itself. Greedy little thing, it was. It was also definitely getting much stronger. As First Aid moved away, already riveted to the data readings on his device, Megatron made a note to ask him later about its increasing power requirements, and if that was normal - he’d noticed that he was beginning to burn through his medical rations with significantly more speed.

Then it was him and Rodimus alone.

With only the barest trace of hesitation, Rodimus scooped up the cleaning kit and crossed the short distance between them, careful not to entangle the cables. He sank down beside Megatron before the latter could muster up a token protest, and then the welcoming heat of his frame made the objection die in Megatron’s intake before it could be voiced. 

“Help me?” Rodimus wasn’t looking at him, already swaying alarmingly. He sounded offhand and so tired still, but the smile had crept back into his voice. “My spoiler’s been killing me.” 

Megatron hesitated. It would be prudent to ask Rodimus about his earlier agitation, but it was also a potential minefield for an awkward discussion of...feelings.

No. Nothing serious had happened. If Rodimus didn’t want to acknowledge or talk about what had just happened, then Megatron wasn’t going to prod him to. 

After a long moment, he pushed aside his misgivings and reached for a brush. It had been his own gesture of goodwill that prompted this, after all. Rodimus moved as if he’d been instructed, slumping away from Megatron so that the expanse of his back was bared to Megatron’s view. Despite himself, Megatron’s processor stuttered for a nanoklik at the easy, trusting movement.

Had Rodimus already forgotten how much damage Megatron had caused - could still cause? He could so easily put his fist through Rodimus’ chest, and from behind, Rodimus wouldn’t even see it coming. When had it become normal for the other mech to behave so heedlessly around him?

Probably around the time he’d slid his cable into Megatron’s port and Megatron had willingly just- trusted him and let him in.

Shaking the thought away hastily before it could grow into something uncomfortable, Megatron bent to examine the delicate join of kibble to frame. He could see where the layers of metal-dust had built up, caught right under the lower set of secondary hinges where a rinse would easily miss. It would be a challenge even for a mech as flexible as Rodimus to reach, and the movement of his spoiler had been looking increasingly rigid over the last two orns in particular. Finally resigning himself to the task at hand, Megatron carefully placed the tips of his fingers against the broad yellow flap to hold Rodimus still.

He ignored, with considerable force of focus, the sudden tremor of the frame beneath his touch.

Rodimus’ backstrut bowed forward at the first slide of the brush. Relief flooded his field and he vented once, hard, before going so silent that Megatron couldn’t hear a thing over the operating sounds of his own worn systems. He concentrated on cleaning out the build-up instead, at one point swapping out the brush for a smaller one to better get at the notches of a hinge. What kind of work had Rodimus started doing anyway, to be surrounded by so much grit constantly? 

He didn’t realize that he hadn’t masked his curiosity until Rodimus half-turned to mumble an answer over his shoulder. All Megatron caught of it was “fragging space-bridges” and “noisy aft ‘Cons”.

“You’ve been tasked with assisting the building efforts?” he guessed, finally setting aside the small brush and picking up the oil and cloth. “Space-bridge infrastructure? That does not seem like your usual...interest.” 

If there was one thing that Rodimus had consistently avoided on the Lost Light - with great success, to Ultra Magnus’ considerable frustration - it had been the complex calculations of calibrating coordinates and teleportation points. Rodimus had always been excited enough to shout out a destination and a command, but when it came to the precise logistics of how to actually get from one location to another, he’d trusted his crew and left it up to them completely. By that default, he’d managed to entirely sidestep the tasks of fine-tuning or making adjustments for their quantum travel from day one, and Ultra Magnus’ attempts to get the proper captain’s approval on the logs had eventually been acknowledged grudgingly as a lost cause. The leaps of the quantum engine were not so different from space-bridging, if one thought about them in parallel.

“It’s not,” Rodimus admitted with a short laugh. At the first careful drop of oil, he tensed, before relaxing under the vigorous rub of cloth that Megatron committed to making as firmly professional as possible. “But I’ve been told that ‘the restoration of functional space-bridges are a priority for both Cybertron and New Cybertron to reestablish peaceful pathways and connections to the rest of the universe’.” He grimaced, a bit of his theatrical energy returning as he held up air quotes to punctuate his last sentence. “I’d be more surprised if any planet let anything bigger than ol’ Tailgate through though, hah; not like we’ve been known for our _diplomacy_ before.” 

If it had been anyone else, Megatron would have taken that as a none-too-subtle dig at him. As it was, he was effectively distracted by Rodimus’ hand groping about absentmindedly on the berth, and then settling on Megatron’s knee in a light pat that would have passed for nonchalant if not for the sudden infinitesimal tensing of his shoulders and the tentative thread that wound through his field.

And he’d only just begun to relax, too. Unthinkingly, Megatron smoothed a hand reassuringly down the interlocking plates at the small of the other mech’s back. Rodimus leaned against him reflexively, seeking the touch - and then they both realized what was happening and Megatron’s fingers stopped dead in their tracks.

For a long, desperate moment, Megatron wondered if physically throwing Rodimus off would be too ridiculous. What was he _doing_? 

He’d successfully kept Rodimus at arm's length for so long now. He’d made sure, again and again, that Rodimus knew not to expect any sort of bond between them during this period. He’d firmly walled off any emotion that could pass even remotely for affection so as not to give Rodimus any ideas. 

And now here they were, pressed nearly fully front-to-back, and Megatron’s spark was spinning so quickly in his chest that he felt dizzy. 

Heat was pouring off Rodimus’ plating. This close, it should have been stifling, if not for the way that it was soaking into Megatron’s cold armor like a comforting blanket. He wanted to lean down and sink into it. He wanted to push Rodimus away so he wouldn’t be tainted by Megatron’s fate.

As the commands warred in his processor, Rodimus thankfully took the decision out of his hands, shifting with a weak, slightly-stilted laugh and removing his hand from Megatron’s knee. Megatron managed to hold in a vent of sheer relief...only to freeze again when the slim yellow fingers found his own instead. There was a pause, and then Rodimus was idly tracing the strokes for the chirolinguistical greeting over his palm.

“My bad, by the way. Haven’t had much energy for our classes. But I think I’m looking forward to getting back to it.” 

It was a total non-sequitur, but there was something impossibly gravitational about the half-cheeky, half-uncertain look that Rodimus snuck at him over a shoulder. He was sitting so close now that the edges of his spoiler kept grazing Megatron’s plating. The expression on his face was so much more like his usual self compared to the fatigued shell of recent orns that Megatron’s core ached. He looked winsomely bright. Temptingly soft, and open.

Megatron could put the flame out where it flickered. All it would take would be for him to withdraw, to say a few harsh words, and the glow in Rodimus’ optics would fade. And he knew it was what he should do, because if things kept going the way they seemed to keep coming back to, the darkness of Megatron’s existence - and his end - would surround Rodimus and swallow him whole when Megatron was gone.

But...if there was so little time left, would a few fleeting moments really make things worse? 

The castigation wouldn’t leave his vocalizer and he couldn’t seem to move. As the silence grew, Rodimus gave a small sigh and leaned against him again, mumbling about a quick rest before getting started. His fingers continued to aimlessly trace random numbers over Megatron’s hand, until his systems powered down and he slipped fitfully into recharge.

***

:: _How are things looking over there?_ :: Jazz sounded entirely too cheerful for Minimus’ liking. Then again, Jazz wasn’t the one who had been lurking about in several dark, dirty alleyways for the last five orns, keeping optics out for Flame. It was hard for Minimus not to judder just thinking about where he was and what he was doing. For reasons of both size and reputation, Ultra Magnus had never been tasked with _undercover_ work. Here in these unfamiliar streets, surrounded by unfamiliar mechs partaking in behaviors that would have been too indulgent during wartime, he felt especially exposed. Not to mention that this spot - three streets away from the pounding bass of an unidentifiable song that rattled his struts - was decidedly _not_ Minimus’ usual scene.

The previous murders had all taken place in locations similar to this one; in fact, the very first case had occurred not too far away at all. That knowledge meant that even though he was technically here to find Flame, Minimus couldn’t help feeling precariously like he’d been set out as bait instead. 

To make matters worse, Jazz had given him the most unconvincing cover story that Minimus had ever heard, which he was to offer up if anyone ever spoke to him - as indeed four mechs had already done, all of them rambunctious and twisting up to him coyly and heartily in turns asking him if he would be interested in a good time. But he’d stuttered that he was only looking for someone, a completely fictional lovely dancer who worked around these parts named ‘Mystery’, and had anyone seen him? 

It bordered on the absurd. The two thin stalks of crystal flowers that he’d been given as a prop were already cracking under his grip the longer he thought about it.

“I think you’ve got the ‘introverted stalker’ look down pat,” Jazz had clapped him on the shoulder at the start of all this, beaming. “Just throw in a little more of that anxious brooding, hmm?”

:: _It’s quiet._ :: he sent back morosely. :: _Still no sign of him._ ::

Jazz had put out word for a mech of Flame’s description after the interview with Megatron, and they’d received an anonymous tip not long after that someone had seen the discredited scientist around these parts. Since Flame had joined Scorponok and the Grand Architect only near the end of the latter’s schemes, and then boarded The Lost Light so late, he’d never had the opportunity to see Minimus outside of the Magnus armor. It had led to Jazz deeming his irreducible self the perfect cover, and then he’d somehow persuaded Minimus to lurk around the area to see if they could find Flame again. In addition, he’d pointed out, Minimus’ size attested to a certain degree of harmlessness, something which would be helpful in turning the more suspicious optics away. 

Minimus had not been able to find it in himself to inform his superior officer that with his load-bearing ability, he could probably have picked Jazz up and thrown him (assuming he didn’t get a blaster to the face before that). That would have been a little too self-aggrandizing.

There was an itch crawling around the back of Minimus’ neck. One of the mechs who’d tried to chat him up earlier - handsome enough by all objective factors, dark green, and the smallest tankformer Minimus had ever seen - had slung an arm around him, and Minimus hoped there hadn’t been any questionable substances transferred to his armor. His collar continued to prickle now as he strained to identify laughing shadows that stretched and blended in the dark around him. Flame’s colors weren’t exactly subtle - shade-wise, he was almost an exact match for Rodimus’ reds, oranges and yellows, except that where Rodimus’ frame was sleek and slim, Flame was bulky and square, not to mention he was a good head shorter from what Minimus remembered. But in the depths of the dark cycle, even such bright colors could appear dim, and Minimus did his level best to check out every single mech who passed by without outright staring at them. 

Someone bumped hard against him from behind and Minimus jolted away reflexively, hands flexing to keep the flowers from being crushed. 

It was a tall white mech, heavy-set with a dark blue helm and matching oversized pauldrons. As he passed, that dark blue head turned stiffly and dipped a fraction, frostily eyeing first the props in Minimus’ hands, and then Minimus himself. Indignant at the rudeness, Minimus raised his chin and looked stonily back. Without so much as an apology or a break in stride, the other mech disappeared into the next alleyway, a waft of refined engex trailing along behind him.

Minimus groaned inwardly. Now he was letting himself be riled up by intoxicated strangers. 

An odd smell hung in the air: like industrial solvent and the sharp tang of freshly-forged metal. There hadn’t been any factories in the area when he and Jazz had pored over an outdated map earlier, but then again, there hadn’t been anything to indicate the rows upon rows of shady bars either. Minimus didn’t really want to move from his spot, but anything had to be better than loitering around like this for much longer.

:: _Shall I enter these...entertainment establishments?_ :: he commed, hoping that his discomposure wasn’t too obvious. :: _It could be more time-efficient._ ::

The response pinged back almost immediately, Jazz’s mirth apparent in the layered glyphs. :: _Sure. Watch yourself though. Many mechs around here hungry for more than just fuel._ ::

Minimus would have snorted if he was the sort to do such a thing. :: _I will be on full alert. And I **can** defend myself._ ::

:: _Not doubting it for a second, my mech. Remember though, you’re undercover, so try to draw as little attention to yourself as possible._ ::

Minimus could certainly do that. He was not one to cause a scene. And if there was one thing that Minimus had always had in spades, it was tolerance and an unending well of patience for anything that could be thrown at him.

Six dodgy bars later, and with a small dent on his aft from one overzealous mech (who’d abruptly found his wrist a micron away from being crushed before Minimus remembered himself), Minimus was seriously reconsidering his strengths. Flame was nowhere to be seen in the throngs of drunk, groping mechs forming a running gauntlet between every door he stepped through and increasingly musty interiors. He wondered if the anonymous tip had been reliable at all.

:: _I think I see someone._ :: Jazz’s sudden alert in his comms was level, all traces of amusement gone. A small data packet pinged at Minimus’ HUD - Jazz was sending an image capture. :: _Is that him?_ ::

Minimus opened the file. Either due to shadow or distance, the mech’s paint looked darker and splotched, as though scrapes had been colored in with a shade that wasn’t exactly matched. But with that distinctive helm… :: _Yes, I believe so._ ::

:: _Great. I’m at the Luminescent Lounge six streets over. I’ll keep an optic on him until you get here._ ::

Had Jazz also been canvassing the surrounding areas all along? Minimus quickly revised his assessment of the situation with a burst of gratitude, along with a tinge of shame for thinking that Jazz had left him on his own. He moved, ducking under another flailing arm. :: _On my way._ :: 

He hurried outside, and the abrupt muting of the roar of noise from the bar as the door slid shut behind him felt blessedly welcoming to his abused audials. He consulted the copy of the area’s map in his memory files again. Though he could go around the front, the fastest way to the Luminescent Lounge would be through a narrow back channel that looked like it was being used as a waste disposal zone. Minimus weighed up the urgency of the situation with his sense of self-preservation, which was currently balking at the idea of wading through mounds of trash that would no doubt contain some extremely questionable substances. 

Duty won out, as it always did. 

He doubled back the way he’d come, towards where the back channel was marked on the map. As he rounded the corner, already dreading finding a clean path to put his pedes on, he heard something from up ahead. 

It was a thin, shrill whimper, gasping and muffled, as if a mech struggled to vent. And a snarled growl, low and animalistic.

Then the suffocating wave of a terrified EM field blasted outwards and hit him full in the face.


	11. Chapter 11

Minimus staggered back, sensornet reeling from the unexpected assault. He cast his optics about wildly, battle protocols activating but coming up empty with blaring alerts on his HUD - most of his automatic combat sequences were wired to the Magnus armor, and Primus, if there was _one oversight_ that Minimus would definitely have to write himself up for, it would be this-

The gasping whimper stretched into a strangled scream, and Minimus surged instinctively forward, aborting the glitching protocols; he had to find the injured mech and help them promptly. Whatever imminent danger lay ahead would simply have to be outwitted and...and…

Horror locked his limbs at the sight that greeted him. 

Standing above a frame that was already graying was an abnormally large mechanimal, its steely spikes flaring as it swung its head towards him and hissed. Its massive jaws, dripping energon, were closed around a flickering sphere that could only be - Minimus’ gaze dropped to the mech, face frozen in a chilling rictus, chest ripped almost in half, and his own spark lurched sickeningly in his core.

He took a step back. Then another.

The colossal turbofox stared at him, bright red optics glinting in the darkness. 

The mechanimals were not supposed to be fully sentient. Turbofoxes were known more for chasing their own tails at high speed than any intelligent function. They were certainly not supposed to be aggressive or be able to do anything more disruptive than winding their way under a mech’s feet, if they hadn’t shied off and fled first.

With a full-body shake and a deep-throated rumble that rattled its plating, the turbofox gulped down its prize, coiled down on its powerful haunches for a nanoklik, and _leapt_.

Minimus threw himself out of the way with mere micrometers to spare, the snap of jaws sickeningly loud right where his helm had been a second ago. He brought up an arm, and not a moment too soon; an enormous claw swiped down hard, slamming him sideways into the wall and raking an agonizing tear down his reinforced vambrace. It was a deep wound, slashing right through the main fuel line for the arm, and that was his energon, hot and spilling out on the ground in a disastrously unimpeded flow. 

The world narrowed down to slavering growls and the wicked gleam of a predatory focus. He could barely hear his own vents, harsh and distant in his audials. In the background of his operating systems, a basic defense subroutine had already begun writing itself, along with an urgent prompt to cauterize the leak immediately or risk bleeding out. There was no time for fine welding now - with what was left of the sputtering circuitry, Minimus transformed the arm in half to kink the line shut, rendering it essentially useless. He flexed his right hand, drawing all remaining power there instead. 

There would be no outrunning a turbofox as large as himself, not when he hadn’t been in alt mode for so long. And definitely not while he was incapacitated.

Heavy paws scraped along the ground as it hissed at him, and then it bared its sharp, sharp teeth in a facsimile of a grotesque grin. It was gathering itself again, pulling back in preparation to jump for his throat, and Minimus knew he would only have a nanoklik to react-

He moved just as it pounced, swinging himself forward for momentum and twisting out of the lethal crush of its jaws. The spinning motion let him curve his right arm around the turbofox’s thick, spikey neck as it swept past him - his arm just barely reached around - and he tightened his grip in a chokehold, uncaring of the sudden wash of full-body pain as it howled and writhed, its serrated armor gouging all the plating it touched. Still twisting, Minimus forced all his considerable charge into his arm. And then, with all his might, he lifted and _threw_.

The turbofox flew over the body of its first victim and smashed into the far wall, its snarls abruptly cut off as it impacted with a strut-snapping crack. 

It had been quite a while since Minimus had come down on the side of unnecessary force. His pedes felt heavy, rooted to the ground, as he stared and stared at the crumpled body of his attacker, willing for it not to get up. Energon was still trickling down his left side, hot and oily. Transforming the arm had not been sufficient to completely stop the leak, and his exertion had only made the situation worse. His HUD was reporting an alarming rate of fuel loss. 

When the turbofox didn’t move for a full klik, he staggered backwards until his frame came into contact with the wall. It was bitingly cold, but it served to brace him. It still took Minimus a moment to pull up his communications protocols - which had been shuttled to the very back of his priority queue during the fighting - and an even longer moment to find the right contact.

:: _Jazz_ :: he commed, watching as static crept up on the sides of his vision. :: _Commander. There’s been another murder. I am...slightly indisposed. Sending coordinates._ ::

Jazz’s response was instantaneous. :: _On my way. Hang tight._ ::

He let himself slump, not daring to take his optics off the turbofox but unable to stop his gaze from wandering to the mech lying brittle and gray between them. Shadows seemed to lengthen and spin, his visual and audio feeds starting to crackle as the rapid fuel loss made itself felt. There was a growing metallic tang in the air, thick and heavy. Just before his sensory suite offlined, Minimus thought he heard footsteps, soft and slowing to a stop in front of him.

***

“What’s gotten into you?” Drift asked warily, circling the other mech and weapon held loosely at the ready. “You’ve been so tired ever since Prowl started putting you to work, but today you want to spar?” He lunged.

Breathless, Rodimus slammed his forearms together in a block, just making it in time as Drift’s kick connected with a thunk. “Feeling- kinda- jittery- ” he gritted out, throwing Drift’s leg off and pushing forward with a force few would have thought his slender frame capable of. “Like- something’s loose- ” his vents flared wider with the exertion, puffing warm air as he dropped into a roll, “- under my armor.”

Drift regarded him, narrow-opticked, not breaking the pace. Then carefully asked, as he whirled and attacked again, “Is this about Megatron?”

Rodimus stumbled right on cue. It would almost have been comical if Drift didn’t have a feeling of impending doom flushing his circuits, like he was watching a dramatic holovid play out in real life, one which everyone knew would end in tragedy. As much as he’d committed to supporting Rodimus in whatever it was he wanted to achieve with the former warlord, Drift couldn’t help the anxious worry that suffused his frame whenever he thought about the aftermath. 

A deeply personal relationship of affection and loyalty was a wonderful thing, one that was as rare to come by as Drift’s own with Ratchet. He would not begrudge Rodimus such a connection, but he’d gleaned, from Ratchet’s too-brief slips of information during their merges, that if a spark-bond was somehow ever forged…

He shook his head to clear the thought. It wouldn’t. That was what First Aid and Ratchet were for. They wouldn’t let Rodimus throw his life away.

“No,” Rodimus replied, just a touch too quickly. Then sensing Drift’s disbelief, he sighed. “Maybe. A little.” He lunged for the wrist, clearly hoping to disarm Drift with a clean blow. Drift spun out of the way easily.

“What did he do now?” He wanted Rodimus to succeed, wanted Rodimus to have what he wanted, wanted Rodimus to be _happy_. But Drift realized, with a squeeze in his core, that part of him also hoped Megatron would keep holding Rodimus at bay. If there was no room for feelings to grow, surely there would be less to mourn later. 

This close, Drift’s sensornet registered a slight heat coming over Rodimus’ faceplates. 

“He- ” another roll forward and this time, in Drift’s distraction, Rodimus managed to tap his wrist. Still not hard enough to dislodge his weapon, and Drift retaliated by bringing down his hand in a forceful blow that glanced off the other mech’s shoulder as Rodimus retreated. “He- got me cleaning supplies,” he panted.

Drift stared at him, incredulous, the fight momentarily forgotten. 

“We have cleaning supplies _here_ ,” he pointed out. “You know you’re welcome to take whatever you need.”

Rodimus was smiling. It was a real smile, the kind that Drift usually saw only when they were alone and talking about silly things that made them laugh. “He’s still trying to put me off,” he shrugged. “Doesn’t say two sentences most days unless I push, stubborn slagger. But I know he looks at me when he thinks I’m in recharge. And- he fixed me, Drift, when I wasn’t feeling right. He _sees_ me.”

A tiny frisson of alarm stayed Drift’s next move. “You were hurt? When? How?”

Rodimus waved dismissively, then took up an attacking stance again, waiting for Drift’s cue. “Not a big deal. Just the fragging Constructicons shoving dirt all over while they build. You know what they’re like.”

Drift felt the strongest urge welling up again to find Prowl and throttle him. The Constructicons were fashioned for hard lifting and manual labor, while Rodimus’ sleek racing frame was as far as could be from that. Lacking the specialized equipment for any sort of construction, he’d been reduced to transporting materials for them between the building sites across New Cybertron. It was impossibly arduous load-bearing work for a mech that had been built for lightness and speed. Rodimus was so obviously unsuited to the task, just as it was equally obvious that Prowl had given him the assignment to restrict his movements and keep watch over him. Ratchet had cautioned Drift from intervening - _“What could you possibly say that would make Prowl change his mind?”_ \- but if Rodimus were to be seriously injured for yet another of Prowl’s scheming machinations, Prowl would find a sword in his aft, Ratchet or no.

Settling into a defensive pose, he gestured for Rodimus to start. “So- why jittery?” he asked, taking up his former line of thought. “Just because Megatron did something...nice?” 

The words felt awkward leaving his vocalizer. It was processor-stalling to ponder on it even now. The powerful and brutally cutthroat leader Drift had followed for so long, now a completely reformed mech and the object of his best friend’s attentions. It didn’t change the fact that Megatron was still a literal black hole while Rodimus, whose reckless spark was an open datalog for all to read, had only fire to defend himself with. Fire that would be extinguished all too easily in the vacuum, however hot it burned.

Rodimus frowned thoughtfully, then swept forward in a series of punches that Drift had shown him before. “It’s not that. He just- looks _sad_ all the time. I don’t like it.” He paused, then twisted in a variation of the footwork he’d just learned. “If I didn’t have much time left, I know I’d want to do as much as I could and see as much as I - ack!”

Drift had dropped low, then spun around and swung out with the blunt edge of the practice sword. To his credit, Rodimus ducked, leaping back out of range with an almost-acrobatic twist of his flexible torso. Drift was impressed despite himself - Rodimus really was a quick study when he wanted to be. But with his lighter frame, he’d still have to work on putting more weight behind his moves if he wanted to do any sort of heavy damage.

“Did you- ” Drift charged forward again, not missing a beat, “- think that maybe he can’t? You said he’s always reading the same datapad, right? Maybe they only let him look at reports or something.” Rodimus’ hand came out of nowhere, landed hard on the top of his wrist. This time, he was much closer in succeeding in sending the practice sword clattering to the floor, but Drift flicked the weapon to his other hand instead, weaving under Rodimus’ outstretched arm and coming up dangerously close. “We know he can’t leave the hospital. What else do you expect him to do? It’s not like he can just sneak out and take a walk without anyone noticing- ”

Rodimus stopped short so suddenly that Drift had to wrench his arm back in order to avoid punching him square on the helm. His cables twinged hard with the effort. Rodimus’ optics were glowing brighter, and there was a widening grin on the pale faceplates. Warning bells went off in Drift’s head. 

“No,” he said slowly, nudging the other mech off-balance with a hip as he shook out his arm to loosen the abruptly-tensed lines. “What I said was not a challenge for _you_. Prowl would take your helm off and you know it.”

“But it’s such a good idea,” Rodimus breathed, and Drift smacked him hard with the flat of the practice sword.

“No funny thoughts,” he warned sternly. “I mean it, Rodimus. No one is going to be able to save you if you drag Megatron even one step out of that medbay. Are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, ‘m listening,” Rodimus replied distractedly, and Drift’s spark sank.

“Promise me you won’t do anything to endanger yourself,” he walked around to stare Rodimus in the optics, reaching up with his free hand to grab at the other mech’s shoulder. “If you’re going to kill yourself with a mad scheme, I’m going to do us all a favor right now and confine you indefinitely in this practice room,” he threatened.

Rodimus beamed at him, the weariness dissolving from his frame like solvent in a wash-rack. “You wouldn’t do anything like that.” He slung an arm right back around Drift’s shoulders, slinking forward like a live wire and rendering Drift’s grip into an awkward side-hug instead. “Anyway, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Drift groaned, and barely resisted smacking him with the practice sword again. “I mean it,” he repeated half-heartedly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“Mhmmm.”

***

Ratchet rubbed at his nasal ridge with one hand. It was almost the end of a shift that had felt particularly long, and if he could just finish filling out the documentation for his last patient, he could finally go home. He hoped Drift had finished sparring with Rodimus; his conjunx had sent a quick message earlier that their former captain had finally come by again, and Ratchet didn’t really feel like interrupting. 

Concentrating on inputting the data, he almost missed the knock on his door until it came again, more firmly, along with a quiet voice asking, “Ratchet? Could you spare a moment?”

What was First Aid doing here? They met for briefings at the start of every cycle, and there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary raised that morning - not with the hospital, and certainly not with their special patient. Ratchet reluctantly pulled himself away from the console, one tantalizing section away from the end of the document.

“Aid,” he greeted, swinging his chair around. He tried his best to keep the gruffness from his voice. “What’s going on?” 

The other medic came into the room, somehow managing to convey unease while striding quickly forward. “Nothing! Nothing’s wrong. Per se.”

Ratchet raised one optic ridge. First Aid was clutching at a datapad, and he gestured for him to hand it over. 

Scanning through the readings, he felt the first jolt of surprise. “Is all of this checked?” he asked slowly, scrolling back to reread the data more carefully from the top. “The rate of the last few orns seems quite...unprecedented.”

First Aid nodded, setting himself down in the chair beside Ratchet’s. “I confirmed all of the previous readings and took a second one at the end of today’s session to be doubly sure,” he said. “That graph that’s been plotted shows an exponential surge in both mass and pulse from the end of the third deca-cycle. Fuel consumption is also increasing remarkably. I can only surmise that the controlled and constant transference of energy is more beneficial than we could initially have hoped for. The strength of Rodimus’ spark, or Megatron being a one-percenter, are likely also disruptive factors.” He looked down at his hands, fidgeting a little before visibly stopping himself. “In any case, the previous calculation of a stellar cycle average was based on a more natural - and irregular - schedule of spark merging. You can see the projections I’ve made based on the latest data. It’s...much faster than expected.”

Of course. Something like First Aid’s program had never been done before, and all of their forecasts had been grounded in secondhand and unequal information. Ratchet stared down at the datapad with a critical optic, thoughts already beginning to race. The new estimation was about half the time they’d thought they would have. If the new spark grew any faster, that grace period would be cut even shorter. 

Primus-damned Matrix-touched progenitor spark.

“How is the growth of the protoform coming along?” he asked, leaning back and shuttering his optics as he quickly went over everything that would be required. “Is the crystal not yet done? And what about the tank?”

First Aid unsubspaced another smaller datapad, this one used primarily for communication. He flicked through the correspondence quickly, then pulled up a timeline. “I’ve already put in a priority order on the incubation tank this morning,” he said, showing Ratchet the message. “And I’ve pushed our protoform request to the top of the queue. We’re lucky that the manufacturing plants have been working overtime in preparation for the harvesting of the Luna-1 hotspot, so there are some protoforms that are already nearing full growth. I’ve also sent a personal comm to Anode for a status update on the crystal, but she hasn’t replied yet.”

Ratchet stopped his ruminating, then smiled at the younger medic. “That sounds like quick and decisive work,” he acknowledged approvingly. It was hard not to notice, however, that instead of satisfaction for a job well-done, First Aid’s field roiled with something else far gloomier instead. Ratchet contemplated leaving it for a brief nanoklik, then vented inwardly.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” he said finally. “Are you worried about the accuracy or credibility of the program? Certain parameters weren’t accounted for, but as you said, the unforeseen results so far could be due to anything from the constancy of the transfer to the uniqueness of the progenitors’ sparks. And there would have been no way you could have known before actually instituting the program. This is still groundbreaking research that will be extremely useful for the future.” Not to mention that this would be the first new spark born of a merge in a rather long time - Ratchet wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was both profoundly nerve-wracking and inspiring on many levels. 

The blue visor swiveled blankly towards him, then paused. “No, Ratchet,” the other medic huffed. Ratchet noticed First Aid had started fidgeting again, plucking at the corners of the communications datapad. “I’m- yes, I’m excited about gathering all of this empirical data. It’s been amazing for my research, and this has been a great opportunity for testing and refining the code of my program. But don’t you realize what this means? For Megatron?”

Ratchet’s mood plummeted abruptly. First Aid must have sensed it. His fingers continued to fumble and tighten in turns on the abused datapad. 

“I talk to Megatron a _lot_ , Ratchet. He’s changed. I know everyone says that without meaning it, but he really has. He has an incredible amount of knowledge to share still, so many things that could help us make real progress here. I thought we would have longer to learn from each other. And I know I shouldn’t, but...I watch them when they’re together, Ratchet, and Rodimus is- well, you can tell that they really do care for each other, and with this- ”

Right. If the new spark was going to be ready to be transferred sooner rather than later, it meant Megatron had far less time than they’d all thought. Optimus and Prowl would have to be informed. And if what First Aid had observed was true, then for all their medical efforts in preventing a spark merge while hoping that Megatron and Rodimus would somehow manage to remain emotionally detached, there was still going to be somewhat of a massive psychological fallout.

He sighed, letting his helm fall back against his chair. “Ah, Pit-sucking fragging slag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed one more chapter for 2020 - I hope you're all still enjoying the story, and I'd love to hear if you are :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting this chapter together took some real effort - my brain has been utterly sidetracked by the work of a new year and competing fandoms. To give myself momentum, I usually post directly after I finish writing a part, but that also means no take-backs, ergo, setting myself up for all manner of twists and turns lol. In other words, thanks to everyone sticking with this wild ride ;)
> 
> Oh, I also started a Twitter account (though I'm terrible with social media as a rule - trying to be better). If you'd like to coo about MTMTE/TLL with me or listen to the occasional ramblings I toss out into the void, you can find me @languidly_

Minimus onlined with a jolt. 

The blinding brightness of the room made the aperture of his optics seize down to pinpricks, heightening the sensation of disorientation. His processor felt slow, the protocols booting up sluggishly. Where was he? 

There was a distant, benign bustle so very reminiscent of onlining in a wartime bunker that he automatically relaxed. But only for a nanoklik, before it sank in that his frame response and awareness was noticeably impaired and the last frozen memory he had, of the blinking red ‘Urgent’ alert that preceded catastrophic energon loss, pulled up on his processor. The rest of his automated memory unit was taking too long to reload, and as his optics finally focused, he looked down and swallowed a groan.

His left arm was a jagged mess of welds, split seams and temporary reinforcing steel bands, hooked up to a fuel line. He tried to flex his fingers, and couldn’t; now that he was starting to pay attention, he couldn’t actually feel anything on that entire side, and as he glanced up towards his shoulder, the large dampener affixed to his frame provided the explanation. 

The reboot of his databanks finished just as the shadow fell across the berth, and he lurched up in an instinctive flinch. His hydraulics heaved with the sudden movement, trying to compensate for the dead weight of his arm, but his balance was utterly shot with the additional bulk of the dampener. He would have fallen off the slab had it not been for the steely grip of the hand that shot out to catch him.

“Minimus,” there was a small smile on Jazz’s face. “You’re online.”

“Sir,” his glossa felt thick in his mouth, body swaying with recalibrating gyroscopes as his free hand clutched at the arm holding him upright. A slew of different priorities battered to the forefront of his processor, clamoring for attention and spilling out in a disorder he would be ashamed of later. “The murder- did you see- the turbofox- the mech, who was he- ”

Jazz’s grip tightened on him in warning, an almost-imperceptible shake of his helm indicating not to speak so openly. “We’re in the emergency room of the Iacon Central Hospital. It hasn’t been three joors since your...accident.” So it was still in the middle of the night cycle - no other medical facilities would have been open at this time. “It’s a good thing for your size,” Jazz continued with some sharp humor. “Made it much easier to get you here.”

It took another long moment before Minimus understood and scrambled for his comms, but Jazz beat him to it. :: _When you’ve stabilized, we’ll move to a more secure location._ :: The blue visor pulsed, once, at him. :: _Flame was not your attacker._ ::

:: _...No._ :: He pulled up an image of the massive turbofox, marred by static, onto his HUD. Sent it in a raw file to his commander, still too wound up and shaky to compress and secure the data transfer. Jazz accepted it after a pause, then gently pushed Minimus back down to the berth with a pressure that would not be brooked. “Rest for now, Minimus. You’re overwrought. Let the welds cool and your self-repair work a little. They only just got enough fuel in you to bring you back.”

He was nowhere near as good as Jazz in terms of keeping up appearances, not that he would have had the strength to resist the way Jazz was rearranging his limbs on the berth anyway. And even though Minimus had seen it for himself in all its nightmarish gory and already knew, he couldn’t stop himself from asking. :: _That other mech, did he...did he…_ :: Survive? He couldn’t even bring himself to send the glyph.

:: _Another team member was dispatched to collect the offlined frame while I brought you here._ :: Jazz sent, outward expression unperturbed as he smoothed a hand over Minimus’ forehelm in a mimicry of affection. :: _I was at your location 0.67 breems after you alerted me. There was no sign of this turbofox you’re speaking of._ ::

Minimus’ vents stalled. That could only mean-

Their elusive murderer had been there. Right in front of Minimus, while he’d been unconscious. He’d taken his mutated pet and ignored Minimus propped out cold against the wall.

There would have been more than enough time before Jazz arrived to put a blade through his spark, but no. Minimus had been left alive on purpose. As if he was an amusement of sorts. 

He’d inadvertently become a pawn in the game, and now his identity was known.

***

“How would you sign, ‘Sing me a song’?”

Megatron couldn’t help the twitch of an optic. “I wouldn’t,” he said evenly. “If you were in a position to sing, why wouldn’t you be able to speak? And if you could speak, why would you be using hand?”

Rodimus mock-groaned beside him, leaning back to rest on a palm, legs swinging. His other hand was still covering Megatron’s unresponsive one. “Why must you be extra clever about everything, Megs?” he grumbled, though he was grinning. “Takes all the fun out of it. Fine. So what would you say is a useful thing to learn?”

Rodimus was in an exceptionally good mood today. He’d come in, dust-covered as usual, showered, recharged for a joor and a half, and then spent a few breems buffing out the scuffs on the front of his armor with the supplies that Megatron had given him, keeping up a running monologue all throughout. Then after he was done, he’d slanted a weighing look in Megatron’s direction, before unceremoniously hopping over to Megatron’s berth again, settling down beside him with a contented flare of his field. 

He’d been doing this more or less for the last few orns. By now, it almost felt like routine that they’d sit together for the duration of the day’s transfer.

Megatron found it nearly disturbing how Rodimus’ cheer was affecting him. He felt lighter and more agreeable than he had in deca-cycles, which had to be the only reason he was still going along with the terrible idea that was continuing to teach his former co-captain chirolinguistics.

“Outside of encountering species who communicate primarily without speech, hand is - logically - useful in situations where you don’t want to be overheard,” he pointed out. Sarcasm really was a wonderful substitute for the strange maelstrom of emotions swirling in his processor. “I mostly used it when the utmost secrecy was required.”

Blue optics blinked rapidly at him. “So what you’re saying is you _gossiped_ with hand?” Rodimus looked gleeful and disbelieving at the same time. “‘Soundwave, please spy on Shockwave and see what he’s up to’, things like that?”

_There are Autobots coming this way. Make sure they don’t interfere._

_Aim for maximum destruction. Launch the weapons._

_We have no use for the prisoners._

_Destroy them all._

“Things like that,” he echoed stiffly, banishing the jagged memories. 

On impulse, he dragged his thumb diagonally across Rodimus’ palm, a straight line from the outside of the wrist joint up to the base of the index finger, ending in a small circle. The hitch in the other mech’s vents was just small enough that Megatron could convince himself he’d imagined it.

“What is that?” Rodimus cocked his helm, curious.

“That means ‘Be quiet’,” he replied stoically.

There was a stunned silence for a long moment and then Rodimus burst out laughing, frame shaking with the force of it. “You’re such a _killjoy_ ,” he sputtered. There was real indignation in there somewhere, but it was buried under indulgence, and a look so affectionate that it twisted Megatron’s spark to see. “Okay. You want to tell me anything else, smart aft?”

A “V” from the thumb to the third finger, then a drag to the outer edge of the palm. _Run_ , or _retreat_. The Decepticons hadn’t used that very often. 

Two circles on the inner edge of the hand. _Be careful_. 

He went through the motions steadily, twice, and managed to keep his vents even when Rodimus’ fingers started tracing the same patterns back on his palm, starting hesitantly but quickly growing more confident. “These are easy,” he commented after a while, though his smaller hand had to strain a little to reach the correct points on Megatron’s larger one. “I think I’ve got them down now.”

His grip on the yellow fingers tightened unthinkingly. “They’re not so easy when you’re in a dangerous situation,” he warned, databanks throwing up long-archived flashes of perilous conditions where advance or survival had depended on swift, unquestioned communication. “You should practice with both hands. Try it with an allocation of less than 15% processing power to account for other combat or strategic protocols that may be running concurrently.” 

It was only a precaution. The idea of Rodimus trapped in circumstances where he would need to use these commands without Megatron at his back made his tank lurch a little. He knew the feeling was completely irrational, and he tried to dismiss it. The whole of their remaining interaction would be centered in this medbay, where Prowl’s layers of security would - beyond ensuring Megatron’s imprisonment - keep Rodimus safe while he was here.

Outside of these four walls, Megatron would never again be able to follow wherever Rodimus chose to go. And it would be none of Megatron’s concern, either.

He dragged himself firmly back to the present. In any case, since he’d given in and started teaching, he might as well teach to the best of his ability. He opened his mouth again to emphasize the seriousness of practicing, but Rodimus’ attention had visibly scattered. Belatedly, he followed Rodimus’ gaze down to their clasped hands. 

Before Megatron could do anything, however, Rodimus shook himself slightly, flexing his fingers and interlocking them more tightly before looking up at him with a small smile. Megatron could have made an effort to disentangle himself but...something about that smile, a fraction brittle and tremulous around the edges, ready to pull back on itself in an instant, stayed him. 

He was tired of being the one to take that smile away. How many times could he tell Rodimus the same thing, especially when it seemed to have no effect?

“Was it difficult?”

Megatron wrenched his focus away from their intertwined fingers, only to be caught by pale blue optics. There was a fathomless depth to them that made it slightly challenging to remember how to speak. “What are you talking about?”

“When you were alone on Functionist Cybertron, before it came here through the Warren portal. Was it difficult?”

He stared, nonplussed, wondering what Rodimus was really asking. “There was a war being fought,” he said deliberately. “The oppressed had nothing. They threw their very frames against the pillars of systemic enslavement. _Of course it was difficult_.”

Rodimus hummed noncommittally. “Uh huh. I saw all that when we, uh, merged before. I saw what you did. How you helped everyone.” A slight heat was rising from his faceplates; this close, Megatron could feel it radiating off him. “But I meant for you. I know Terminus was there, and you got to have a fresh start but...it was such a long time. Was it- were you- ” the way he was stumbling over his own words might have been amusing if Megatron hadn’t been so distracted by trying to understand what he was getting at. Finally, Rodimus muttered, “Would you have stayed in the other universe, if you had a choice?”

The question, and the one behind it, hung in the air.

_Were you lonely?_

“I was always thinking of how to make it back.” Megatron didn’t know why he was admitting it. No one who heard him would ever believe him, not with the Galactic Council waiting for him here. It _had_ been wonderful having a fresh start, a second chance to revolutionize without losing himself down the path of wanton death and destruction. And Terminus, who had only known Megatron from that early period in the mines, had aided in the illusion that he’d somehow gone back in time - as though his tenure as Decepticon commander, with all its failures and evils, had never existed. 

But of all the thousands of faces that had surrounded him, none had been truly familiar. It hadn’t been _his_ Cybertron.

It hadn’t been home, on the Lost Light.

The emptiness of his subspace where his Rodimus Star had sat nagged at him, quieted only by the fact that the actual mech it was based on was sitting right here, real and alive and so much warmer than anything Megatron could remember.

Rodimus nodded decisively at his answer, as though it was a truth he had already guessed at. He looked surreptitiously over to where First Aid was sitting but the medic was completely absorbed in a large datapad, tapping away furiously on it. The spark energy transfer for today was almost over; First Aid would come to disconnect them soon.

Rodimus fumbled at a small compartment under his chestplate with his free hand. Then, with one last covert glance across the room, he slid a small chip nonchalantly across the berth. All of Megatron’s suspicions fired up. 

“What is this?”

“It’s a surprise,” Rodimus was trying to hide it, but the sidelong gaze and the thrumming of his field leaked of excitement. “I swear it’s not anything bad. If you run the program at the start of the twenty-third joor later, I promise there’ll be something cool.”

He stared at the chip as though it were coated with organic slime. “A surprise,” he repeated flatly. “You know I am not a fan of surprises.”

“Well, yea, I know that,” Rodimus grinned at him. “But you trust me, don’t you?”

Megatron’s processor stalled at the frank certainty. “...Yes,” he allowed gruffly. “Most of the time.” 

Rodimus graciously ignored the qualifier, breezing on. “Then try it later. Alright? The twenty-third joor, don’t forget!” A long yellow finger tapped on the chip, pushing it the last distance so that it slipped smoothly under their joined hands.

***

Optimus turned the datapad over and over. He’d been silent since Ratchet had passed him the information, battle-mask firmly shut and hiding his expression. But Ratchet had known his Prime for too long not to be able to read some of those carefully-guarded telltale signs. 

Optimus was _not_ happy.

Ratchet spared a brief moment to wonder why. Optimus had had no qualms about handing Megatron over to the Galactic Council for sentencing, and had even staked Cybertron’s diplomatic future on returning the ex-warlord once the new spark was harvested. Had he hoped to capitalize on the delay to think of another route, another way forward? Or was this merely a dash of sentimentality for his old enemy, who had been a friend once upon a time?

Prowl was not as hard to read in comparison. Though the tactician’s field was tamped down as tightly as the stressed, physical clamp of his armor, there had been a flash of surprise as he’d skimmed over the datapad, followed rapidly by a complex mix of annoyance and relief. No doubt once this entire fiasco was over, it would be one less large parameter to hold in that busily-running strategic processor that never seemed able to take a moment’s rest. Prowl was rereading the information again now, this time more slowly and carefully, oblivious to his commander’s heavy silence.

“First Aid is waiting on some final confirmations on the equipment we need,” Ratchet said at last, when no questions appeared to be forthcoming. “In the meantime, we’ll be keeping a much closer watch on the development of the new spark and adjusting the timeline as necessary. The first operation to replace some of Megatron’s central wiring has also been scheduled, if you’ll just sign off on it - I anticipate that the demands of the new spark growing at its current pace will be too much to handle for his degraded systems, even if we increase the size and quality of his fuel rations. Hopefully,” and he kept his voice as curt as he could make it, First Aid’s disquiet and observation still fresh in his memory, “- hopefully Megatron will not be too adversely affected with this news, and remain as cooperative as he has been thus far.”

Prowl didn’t even look up. “We should consider if it would be wiser not to give the prisoner any more information than is required.”

Ratchet stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“We must take into account that Megatron could be scheming some method of escape at the end of this. It still seems unlikely to me that the igniting of the new spark was entirely without premeditation, especially since we know Rodimus is particularly impulsive and...amenable to suggestion,” and there the edge of irritation was sharp. “If Megatron is made aware that he has less time, he will be able to alter whatever plans he might have. It would therefore be my recommendation that the prisoner not be apprised on this revised timeline, or indeed given information that could factor into any potential plotting at all.”

Ratchet’s fingers twitched. There was a sudden, very strong urge to reach out, grab the datapad, and possibly, just possibly, hit Prowl over the helm with it. “Are you suggesting,” he asked slowly, through dentae that had clenched without him realizing, “That we operate on Megatron, replace his wiring, change his provisions...bring forward all the preparations to harvest the new spark spinning in his frame, without _telling him about this_?” Oh, Drift would have been proud that Ratchet had managed to keep his voice down. Calm even. 

Prowl shot him a flinty-eyed look, steely and immovable. “We would still be providing him with the best care,” he pointed out drily. “It’s hardly maltreatment. And far more than a prisoner with his cunning and track record deserves. Withholding the details you have shared now is merely a logical additional safeguard against a disruption of the greater picture.”

With every new word in his audial, Ratchet could feel his temperature gauge tick upwards. “Damn your logic, Prowl,” he snapped. “There are patient rights here!”

A hard and unforgiving line was forming on Prowl’s faceplates. “There is cause for Megatron to be evaluated as an exception to the standard rules. We have too much riding on his eventual return to the Galactic Council to take any chances with this. Point of fact, we must press every advantage we can, knowing what we do about Megatron and the ridiculous lack of control he has over those who still remain loyal to him.” As clearly evidenced by what had happened during Megatron’s first trial on Luna-2, when Decepticons led by Seawing had attempted to break him out in full view of an entire assembly of Autobots and Neutrals.

Ratchet swung around in disbelief. “Optimus!” he growled, and yes, the battle with keeping his voice down had been swiftly lost. “Tell me you’re not going to agree with this.”

Optimus’ large hands stilled around the datapad. The illumination in his deep blue optics was a shade dim, purposefully neutral. “Prowl makes a valid point, as do you. However, in instances like this, perhaps erring on the side of caution would be the wiser move.”

Ratchet gaped at him. The reflexive outrage was so strong that he had to reset his vocalizer with a click. “You can’t be serious,” he managed to bite out. “There’s politics, and then there’s right and wrong.”

Optimus looked at him for a brief moment, and then said quietly, “It is not always so simple to separate the two.”

The anger was back, bringing with it all the bitterness of Ratchet’s long disillusionment. He stopped himself, just barely, from loudly declaring his defiance; even in the face of the strut-deep weariness that seemed to emanate from his oldest friend and leader’s frame, Ratchet knew well from experience that shouts and threats would do less to move Optimus than reason.

“Megatron is not an idiot,” he pronounced clearly. “He will know something is up regardless. With regards to any _plotting_ , beyond First Aid, Rodimus and myself, he has been kept in complete isolation, as I’m sure Prowl’s own security will be able to attest to. Megatron has done nothing but cooperate since he defected, Optimus. And he went with Prowl willingly after the Lost Light returned for good, when he didn’t have to. Now we’re talking about _his_ frame, _his_ new spark. He _deserves_ to know. To prepare himself mentally, if nothing else.”

Optimus hesitated. Prowl was a glowering presence on the other side, but Ratchet pointedly ignored the tactician with the ease of thousands of years of practice. Not to mention that if he looked at Prowl again, he would most definitely throw something at him. On cue, he felt the weight of that particular datapad, the one with the controls to the inhibitor chip implanted in Megatron’s neural network - it felt as if it was burning a hole through Ratchet’s subspace.

“...I will consider this further,” Optimus said finally. “In the meantime, you have my permission to perform the upgrades outlined in your proposal, as well as to increase Megatron’s rations. Keep him and the new spark as healthy as you can, Ratchet. We do not want any complications.”

And from the way Optimus shifted deliberately away from him, Ratchet knew that was going to be the best he got today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random unrelated news, it's my birthday this week! If anyone would like to drop a comment telling me if there's a line or a part that they've particularly enjoyed so far, it would be such a lovely gift (and give me strength as I'm pulled one step closer towards death).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for this one. If you're uncomfortable with the concept of Cybertronian "self-surgery" in conjunction with wiretapping, you might want to give the Minimus/Jazz POV section a miss.

Megatron watched as First Aid bustled about the medbay, spooling up the last of the measurement cables and instruments. The medic had been distracted all day and more than a few times, Megatron had caught him staring so hard at his datapad that he might have drilled a hole through it if it’d been possible to do it with laser focus alone. Even their morning discussion on the mechanics of replacing forged components with constructed ones - typically a favorite topic between them - had been somewhat lackluster. Megatron’s attention had been diverted with Rodimus’ presence and then later with the chip that Rodimus had given him, but it was nearing the end of the day now and First Aid’s mood was obviously still not clearing up. He glanced over the smaller mech.

“First Aid. Is something bothering you?”

First Aid’s helm whipped back to him, visor flickering in surprise and...some other odd emotion. “What? No?”

Megatron looked at him steadily. “Is it work, or is it personal?”

They’d spent enough time together over the last few deca-cycles to slowly skirt past the boundaries of polite acquaintanceship. It had come to the point where it wasn’t unusual for them to have vigorous debates about the advisability of certain medical procedures, even comparing their own skills and experiences with cutting honesty. What Megatron lacked in formal training he tended to make up for with his field experience from the Functionist Universe, and what First Aid lacked in field experience he made up for with formal knowledge of past, present and experimental treatments and processes. 

Through these interactions, First Aid had proven himself to be empathetic, competent and refreshingly direct. Megatron didn’t know if First Aid would consider him a friend, but for his own part, he’d been privately grateful for the stimulating company and the openness that First Aid had gifted him with.

For what it was worth, he now thought he knew First Aid well enough that leaving the medic alone when the latter was so clearly disturbed felt inappropriate. It had been difficult to stop thinking of First Aid as a crew member of the Lost Light, someone who would have been under his management and responsibility, even though that time was long past. So Megatron channeled all of his hard-won patience and neutrality into his field, and waited.

First Aid stared back at him for a beat, then slumped a little, turning away to tuck the cables back in their boxes. “I’ve been that obvious huh? It’s sort of...a bit of both.”

It felt slightly like crossing the line to offer his confidence, but Megatron pushed through anyway. “Is it something you can or want to talk about?”

First Aid didn’t turn around. “I- no. I can’t. Not right now.”

Well. He would respect First Aid’s judgement, but, “You know that if you change your mind, I’d be happy to listen.” Which, strangely enough, was true. The last instance when Megatron had felt this sort of simple camaraderie had been with Ultra Magnus. He supposed he hadn’t spent as much time in a personal capacity with anyone else to develop that. Not many mechs could see past the things that Megatron had done. 

He couldn’t blame them.

First Aid’s fingers stilled at his words before resuming their busy flurry. “I’ll...remember that. Thank you.”

That settled, Megatron spared a moment to check his internal chronometer. First Aid had run more tests than normal today, likely due to Megatron having flagged the increased power and fuel the new spark seemed to require of late. His entire frame had been feeling overtaxed, as though there was a small leak to the black hole somewhere within him that he couldn't perceive, draining him relentlessly. 

The cycle had turned late - it was fast approaching the twenty-first joor. 

Unbidden, an image of Rodimus’ bright expression from earlier and the comforting warmth of a yellow hand tangled with his surfaced. Megatron hadn’t had time to question Rodimus further; the transfer had ended a bare klik after Rodimus had slid the chip under Megatron’s palm, and First Aid had promptly come over to disengage them. Megatron could still have - should have - said something then, refused to play along...but for that light-hearted twinkle in Rodimus’ optics and the smoothing out of those frequently-harried faceplates. It’d made his former co-captain look as carefree and charming as he had during the best days of their quest, and the mischievous gaze had meaningfully conveyed the pure, conspiratorial delight of sharing a secret. Seeing it directed at him had altogether weakened Megatron’s resolve. 

Which left him sitting here now, outwardly still and inwardly torn as to whether or not to actually use the damned chip.

‘Something cool’ in Rodimus-speak could mean anything from induced inebriation - a targeted coding would go right past Megatron’s permanently-engaged fuel intake moderation chip - to setting something on fire - although Rodimus _had_ sworn that it wasn’t anything bad, which meant it wasn’t likely to raise any alarms in the medbay. Then again, Megatron was more than familiar with the fact that ‘bad’ in Rodimus-speak was also highly subjective.

And why the twenty-third joor? What was going on then? 

Frustration was beginning to set in the longer he thought himself into circles. He really should have found a way to pry more details out of Rodimus before he had left. Surely there would have been some small chance to do that without alerting First Aid to the fact that Rodimus had given Megatron something that Megatron was most definitely not allowed to possess.

He was shaken out of his mulling by First Aid drifting to a stop in front of him, field still tucked firmly closed. “Are you alright for the evening? Is there anything I can get you before I leave?”

Megatron offered a small nod. “I am as well as can be, beyond the issues that you’re already taking a look at. Shall we continue our discussion on the pliability of constructed components tomorrow?”

First Aid’s smile was wan but sincere in return. “I’d like that.”

***

The large turbofox had been laid out on the long table, still knocked utterly offline. Its owner tutted as the crushed neck-plates and the snapped spinal strut were meticulously examined, turning the frame this way and that to do one last check. Three more tiny shards of splintered pieces were found and smoothly pulled out, before a welding torch was lifted. 

Besides the soft skittering hiss of hot flame being put to metal, the only other sounds in the cold dark room were fuzzy voices that could be heard from the odd communications set-up sitting across on yet another long table, otherwise empty but for the flickering sphere of a mauled spark casing. 

“... _fzzz_...who... _fzz_...him here?” The constant low static that had started emanating from the equipment when the broadcasting started was unusual and a real annoyance. But it also provided information on its own. The mechs he was listening to were perhaps underground, or in a shielded building. There weren’t that many of the latter on New Cybertron. 

It solidified his suspicion that it hadn’t been an unsuspecting citizen who’d fought TF-023 off and damaged its systems enough that it’d been thrown offline. He’d thought there was something strange with the mech when he’d first seen him standing there, with those pathetic crystal flowers and that darting red-opticked gaze.

Once again, his instincts had been proven right. He was truly skilled, as he’d known of himself all along, downed previously only by the poor decisions of the ones he’d been forced to follow. But as Primus had willed it, he had survived everything. It was a sign that his task now had been ordained by Primus himself. 

“-okescreen...know him from... _fzzz_...Light before?”

“Ah, yes, _fzz_ …-rarely spok- ”

There was a long silence, punctured only by the distant sounds of uneasy shifting around. The mech listening paused mid-weld, cocking his helm. It wasn’t long before the conversation resumed.

“...why do you thi- ... _fzzz_...was left? .. _fzz_...could have killed... _fzz_.”

“Might have... _fzz_...already dead.”

“I don’t... _fzzz_...sir.”

A military operation, perhaps? There was a chain of command being depicted here, no matter how casual, and it was becoming apparent that the small mech who’d dispatched TF-023 was the subordinate. But if it was military…

“-had optics on Flame all the... _fzz_...did not seem to be communicati- _fzzz_...others.”

So. They were onto him. Enough so that they had picked up the slivers of the false trail he’d laid. Oh, and he’d been so careful when selecting Flame to take the fall as well - not that there had been that many alternatives of aimless and depressed scientists who would be easily lured to a location with cryptic and empty promises of new laboratories and funding. Flame had shown up as predicted, TF-023 had performed remarkably on its unsuspecting victim, and if the small mech had only not interfered- ! The murder would have been tied to the faded former Autobot simply by virtue of Flame being who he was and being _there_ , further throwing off suspicion from _him_.

Not, it seemed, that his pursuers had any idea on how to narrow down their investigation into his real identity so far. Musing, he turned to select a new strip of scrap metal that would replace the lower end of the snapped spinal strut, before turning back to his welding.

This time, the silence on the other end was more pronounced. He carefully fused the new strip to the frame, avoiding the thick cables wound below before pulling back and examining his work. He was running out of suitable replacement parts. If TF-023 had not been the most well-integrated result and the closest possibility for full-system transference so far, it would definitely have been more economical to take it apart and use its components to reinforce the other prototypes instead.

Perhaps he’d have to go back to the hospital. Find another _donor_ or two. It had been some time since his last scavenge, so it would probably be safe. It was so much harder to get components now that there wasn’t an active war on-planet.

“Will you help... _fzz_...this off ple- ?”

“...dampener? _Fzzz_...self-repair already... _fzz_ …?”

Ah. Dampeners. That would account for the unusually high interference. _Of course_ the Autobots and Neutrals would supply it as a standard level of care in hospitals, this foolish indulgence for mechs who needed to numb themselves after injury. It would also explain why it had taken so long for the wiretap to start working; the signal would have been thoroughly blocked by several of the dampening devices placed near each other in a medbay. It must have started broadcasting only when the mech had left the hospital. 

No true soldier would have accepted the dialing down of their sensor suite, not even for a moment. So perhaps the one who’d wounded TF-023 was a civilian officer, if he was accustomed to these ridiculous comforts.

He looked down at the snapped strut beneath his hands again. Such strength, from such a small frame… 

Could it be? 

A...Point One Percenter?

The idea curled under his plating and awoke a vicious arousal. The final goal was to absorb as many powerful sparks as possible, but he’d not imagined that he would find one easily since the most noted of his former faction had long either offlined or left the planet. His methods, once successful, would negate the need to hack into Autobot intelligence to identify suitable mechanisms here, but he was still one step away from being able to do that, and there had been no real hurry. Until now.

If this mech _was_ a Point One Percenter, then Primus had to have put him in his path as a sign.

“ _Fzz_ … -something we’re missi- _fzzz_...know it.”

“Maybe we should... _fzz_...”

The voices cut off abruptly as his hand paused once more over the tray of scrap metal. There was a thin whine from the communications set-up, increasing steadily in pitch, but none of the loud, scratchy static that usually indicated that a device had been noticed and was being forcibly removed or destroyed. Had the mechs moved further underground? Had the dampener disrupted the signal completely? How frustrating.

But Primus had spoken. Primus had let him see the way forward. It was time to start taking the programs into himself. He could start slowly, and with the enhancements that that would give him, he would no doubt be able to hunt down the first true sacrifice of his holy mission. He would become a divine punisher, a sword of Primus’ own hand, and nothing would stand in his way.

***

Minimus was, in a rare moment, rendered completely speechless. He stared at the tiny, energon-covered black chip in the small box that Jazz held loosely between two fingers, outrage coursing through him.

The box delivered another electromagnetic pulse in a brief crackle of electricity, and it was only then that Jazz flipped open the lid and shook the contents of the box out carefully onto his palm.

Minimus found his voice, though it came out louder and perhaps less-controlled than he would have liked. “That came from _inside_ my lines.” 

It’d been almost an entire orn since he’d first woken up in the hospital, and he’d finally healed enough for the medic on duty, a placid New Cybertronian, to agree to discharge him. He’d commed Jazz, who’d appeared within three breems to lead him to one of the makeshift bases that Special Ops seemed to have in various places. 

They had just started their debriefing when Minimus had opened the hatch in his forearm panel, intending to remove the smaller dampening device that the medics had clipped inside when they’d finally allowed him to leave. The embarrassment and anxiety of having one arm hanging limply while the rest of his processes were in a paranoid state of high alert had finally become too much. The clip had been unreasonably tight and set at an angle difficult for him to simply wrench off, and so he’d steeled himself to ask Jazz for assistance. Jazz had just gotten a good hold on the dampener when he’d suddenly stilled, running his fingers rather inappropriately down the repaired cables. 

Then he’d stuck out his hand and gestured at Minimus for silence before whipping out a thin, narrow flex-knife from nowhere. 

A _knife_. Minimus was rather proud of the fact that he had retained enough calm to obey the order instead of scrabbling off the chair and demanding an explanation. 

Then Jazz had started talking, as conversationally as if he wasn’t tracing one of Minimus’ cables in his opened armor with a wickedly sharp point. “There’s something we’re missing.” Casual, too casual. “I just know it.” 

The effect of the as-yet unclipped dampener mercifully spared him the feeling of Jazz slowly slicing open his fuel line with surgical precision, a few inches above where the long slash of his wound had just started knitting back together. But no amount of numbing could have held the disbelief at bay as his superior officer proceeded to angle the tip of the knife _into_ the small cut, pushing it in and rooting about. Minimus had had the queer, distant sensation of being gently scraped from the inside, and only through sheer discipline had he managed to dismiss the purge queries from his system. 

Jazz had shot him a loaded glance, silently mouthing. Oh. He wanted Minimus to say something back. “Maybe we should- re-examine everything,” Minimus had blurted weakly, unable to think of anything else. “Go back to what we know- ”

And then Jazz had pulled out the black chip, balanced on the edge of the knife, and swiftly dropped it into a small box that he’d pulled out of subspace. :: _Nullifying EMP._ :: Jazz sent curtly, and then he’d activated the electromagnetic pulse to disable the chip without destroying it. Minimus could admire that kind of brutally cool-headed thinking. In his own shock and confusion, he might have instinctively smashed the chip into pieces instead. 

He found his gaze pulled back to the small horizontal cut in his fuel line, a deep, disturbing sense of having been violated threatening to drown out his usual sense of equilibrium. He was used to battling his enemies upfront as Ultra Magnus, trading physical blows and reacting to direct maneuvers - this sort of underhanded action was so repulsive to him that Minimus couldn’t quite stop a shudder. He sat stock still as Jazz stood over him, running efficient hands across his frame in a quick, clinical scan before straightening with a nod.

“He must have pressed this in through the wound while you were unconscious in the alley,” Jazz surmised. “Very clever. Somewhere the medics wouldn’t see while fixing you up, and so small that even without the dampener, you might not have noticed it while your self-repairs were taking place. Those nanites tend to scramble the signals to your sensor suite.”

Minimus locked down the urge to shudder again. It took some effort. “How did _you_ know it was there?”

Jazz waggled his fingers at him. The smile he gave Minimus didn’t quite rise to his visor. “I’ve had several modifications for precisely these kinds of situations. You wouldn’t believe how much of Special Operations is just about bugging and making sure you’re not bugged in return. Have to admit this is the first time I’ve actually found one inside a mech, though. And this little thing- ” he tossed the EMP box into the air once, before subspacing it with a sleight of hand, “-was also made to deal specifically with that. Deactivates the device quickly and quietly so we can move on to investigating where it came from.” He frowned thoughtfully, flicking the chip. Drops of Minimus’ energon scattered to the ground. 

“We mentioned Flame, and the Lost Light, and Smokescreen. Not sure how much of that actually got transmitted since we’re underground, but the Lost Light has been decommissioned so that’s hopefully a dead end. I’ll tell Smokey to lay low for a bit and keep his audials out for anyone asking after him. Maybe we should keep an optic on Flame, but I’m pretty certain by now that he was just a diversion.”

Minimus shook off his crawling inertia firmly. He’d had worse in his systems. He’d had a number of his own crew miniaturized and down his intake trying to destroy Nanocons before, and _they_ had been alive and well and knocking around in his mouth pistons. A listening device in his fuel line was nothing compared to that. 

“Do you recognize the make of it?” He was inordinately grateful that the steadiness had returned to his vocalizer.

Jazz hummed, lifting the chip up to his visor and turning it this way and that. His visor flared, then dimmed in concentration. “It’s been cobbled together with various parts, but the way the wires have been twisted together and the weld of the transmitting components are definitely not Autobot standard. It could be Neutral, but with the way it was sheathed to be implanted, I’d rather bet on Decepticon.”

Minimus’ tank gave one last, nauseated squeeze. “Is there any way we can confirm that? Or trace the signal?”

Jazz gave the chip a considering glance. “We could try to check the transmissions from the nearest communications array, but this looks so low-level that I wouldn’t be surprised if the signal was tangled up with all other interpersonal comms. There’d be too much traffic to sift through.” Then he brightened. “For a second optic on the make though? We do have a captive high-level Decepticon sitting around with nothing to do.”

Minimus couldn’t stop the disapproving look at his superior officer. “ _Former_ high-level Decepticon,” he corrected, a little stiffly. It made him feel immediately better to be rectifying something, as insignificant as this was. “Megatron has proven his commitment to reforming himself many times over now.” And his former co-captain was not _sitting around_. Megatron was enduring a relatively rare and dangerous medical condition with his new spark, while being all but imprisoned. But saying so would be an inappropriate indication of Minimus’ own personal views. So instead, he said with conviction, “I’m sure Megatron would be glad to assist in any way possible. He was very forthcoming before.”

Jazz didn’t look at him, but the black-and-white mech barked out a laugh that was almost amused. “Yes. Yes, I suppose he was. Let’s swing by again then. Later. For now, you need to recharge and heal up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Struggled a little with this chapter because I find it much harder to write this aspect of the story. But I didn't want to keep sitting on it, so I hope it wasn't too difficult to read and that the menace of the mech in the shadows has started coming through.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this scene imagined in my head since several chapters ago, and am so happy to finally get it out. Hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it ;)

Megatron found himself checking his chronometer again. As he’d done almost twenty times since First Aid had left.

The twenty-third joor clicked closer, oblivious to his increasing agitation. He uncurled his fingers, stared hard at the innocuous chip, and resisted the urge to palm his helm. 

He’d never actually agreed to anything. Rodimus would be disappointed, but probably not surprised if Megatron didn’t use the chip. It simply didn’t make any sense to do so when he had no idea what it entailed.

Except that Rodimus would be _disappointed_. 

That light that had started coming back into those shining blue optics would dim again. Megatron had been harsh, had kept as much distance as his crumbling willpower allowed, and still Rodimus had squirmed past his defenses with his dust-covered armor, his annoyingly persistent attempts to speak hand, and his too-personal questions. By proximity alone, he was proving to be an inexorable magnet, drawing out all of Megatron’s ebbing determination to have this situation handled quietly and ended quickly. 

He didn’t know how he’d ever thought it could be otherwise, with Rodimus involved. Foolish of him. As if he hadn’t experienced Rodimus’ recklessness and the allure of his enthusiasm time and time again.

No, Megatron’s last chance to push Rodimus away had been at the beginning of this arrangement. He’d made sure that Rodimus had known that what had transpired between them had been a mistake and could not happen again, and he’d hoped to be left alone. But he’d been unable to keep up a behavior that would make Rodimus _hate_ him. A weakness that had brought them to this point, where Megatron was now having to face the fact that indulging Rodimus had been as good as selfishly indulging himself.

Primus above. If this was the last time he was going to be able to be roped into one of Rodimus’ terrible ideas...

He wanted it.

The numbers on his chronometer flipped. Before he could hesitate or argue with himself again, Megatron inserted the chip into his wrist, laid himself down with a sense of impending doom, and granted the permissions to run the program. 

His vision blanked into darkness, and there was a momentary flare of panic before sight returned. Followed by sounds. Unfamiliar, noisy, rising sounds.

For several nanokliks, all Megatron could do was stand there, stunned. Because unless this was a complete hallucination, he was _out of the medbay_ , which he most certainly should not be, and - as he looked down at himself and raised his hands - this was _not his frame_. This frame was plain, dull blue, scraped up, and had faded white accents painted in wide swathes on the wrists and thighs. No Autobot or Decepticon emblem. It was as nondescript as it could possibly be.

He spun around, flabbergasted, trying to see where he was. He was on the corner of an intersection, and a mech he didn’t recognize was sliding off the wall from where he’d been leaning, heading briskly towards him. Megatron stumbled back automatically, helm swinging left and right in a desperate attempt to make sense of things. And then the mech spoke with _Rodimus’ voice_.

“Megs! You made it!”

His panic latched onto the only thing that was recognizable; Megatron barely resisted the urge to grab the mech and shake him by the shoulders. “What is going on here? I- you- !” He had to take in a deep vent to steady himself, but it was not enough to stop the explosion of unease in his core. He tried for calm, but all he could process was that he was _not where he was supposed to be_. 

“I’m violating the terms of my sentence,” he managed to get out. “What have you- don’t you know you’ll be judged as an accomplice?” Although ‘accomplice’ was wholly inaccurate when it was Rodimus who was the mastermind behind this wild and completely illegal endeavor, but Megatron already knew where Prowl would place the blame.

The mech, who was dark gray, boxy - and so unerringly Rodimus from the way he sidled closer and flashed the illumination in his optics - upturned both hands innocently. “But you haven’t left the hospital, Megs. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, this is a holomatter avatar. Your real body - your actual frame - is still very much where it’s supposed to be in First Aid’s medbay.”

Megatron glared at him. “That is a mere technicality. How did you- holomatters are designed by the mech using them, and then projected- ” He realized he was speaking in clipped-off phrases, unable to hide just how utterly thrown off-balance he was. Megatron had not done _flustered_ since before the war, as a naive miner who’d easily trusted the mechs around him. But this was a ridiculous situation, and the fact that Rodimus had managed to conjure up such an outlandish idea was starting to make his processor glitch.

“Oh, that? I asked Brainstorm if holomatters could be tweaked to Cybertronian specifications. It makes sense, if you think about it. We envision our avatars to be whatever we want them to be, and we make them as big or small or loud and crazy as we want, right? So why confine them to being organic? He wrote me a program and tied the chip’s activation to these exact coordinates, and voila!”

That had been...rather clever of Rodimus, Megatron thought despairingly.

And Brainstorm. Of course. The scientist’s curiosity would have gotten the better of him once Rodimus had casually popped the question, and then all it would have taken was a dare cleverly disguised as a glib remark for the mech to come up with the holomatter generator coding exactly to Rodimus’ specifications.

“Why- here? Why- ” why _at all_ , and Megatron shut his vocalizer down and rebooted it because he was horribly aware, with a sinking feeling in his chest, just why Rodimus had done this. Megatron hadn’t been resolute enough. All it had taken was a few scuffed appearances and a scattered amount of hand-holding, and Megatron had succumbed and started engaging with Rodimus again as though- as though they had all the time in the world to discover each other anew.

He felt a sharp tug on one servo, and this frame was so much smaller and lighter that he found himself being pulled down the street before he could plant his pedes down in resistance. Rodimus was brimming with eagerness, unceremoniously towing him towards a square that seemed to be filled with a milling, chattering crowd. As they neared, Megatron noticed the large banner that had been hoisted between two tall poles.

It read ‘FESTIVAL OF THE NEW MOON’ in bold black letters.

“Here, because there’s fun stuff going down tonight. I just thought it’d be nice for you to see it! Or for us to, uh, see it together.” This last was muttered in a much lower register, but Megatron heard it anyway. “Since I _did_ figure out how we could do it without breaking any ‘technicality’ rules, I don’t think we should waste any time looking behind our backs and just enjoy ourselves!”

Megatron balked, finally digging his heels in at that, and as Rodimus surged forward he pulled the other mech back to him with a concentrated force. “Rodimus- ” It felt hard to speak. “You agreed not to expect more of me,” he said tightly. “So then...what is this?” The minute gesture felt awkward as he tried to gesture vaguely to the space between them. If regret was lighting a slow burn up his lines, he was not going to acknowledge it.

Rodimus cocked his helm, looking at him steadily. 

Then to Megatron’s surprise, instead of brushing the question off and dragging them forward anyway, Rodimus stepped closer.

“I know what you said.” His voice was calm, candid. “I know what _you_ think is best, and I know you’re a stubborn aft. But if everything from now on is just going to be counting down the time that you have left, can you humor me this once, Megs? Please?”

The hand still holding Megatron’s felt strong and warm. The sound of the crowd seemed to swell, enveloping them in a protective blanket of further anonymity. They were buffeted by countless EM fields, all relaxed and broadcasting overwhelmingly of delight, optimism, and a sense of security. It had been so long since Megatron had seen the outside of a cell or the medbay, and there was so much _life_ here, so much normalcy the likes of which he had not seen for several million years, that he suddenly ached.

“We should go back,” he meant to sound firm, but against his better judgement, his optics were already darting about, taking in the sights and sounds. Dozens of small stalls had been set up on the sidewalks, selling everything from energon sweets to intricate metal craftwork. Mechs ambled to and fro, laughing and talking, and someone was even singing, a low-pitched tune of an unknown song. Strings of hazy lights were suspended over the entire area, casting a surreal glow over everything. 

Slim hands came up to press lightly on either side of his helm. “Look at me, Megs.”

Bracketed by the gentle steel grip of Rodimus’ fingers, Megatron reluctantly turned his gaze back.

“No one knows us here. You’re not you, and I’m not me. We can be anyone and anything, just for this one night. Can you go with that?”

There was an odd quality to Rodimus’ voice that made Megatron want to believe him. That, or it was the background bustle of the festival, and the warmth of the sparkling lights overhead. As he stared into bright blue optics that were Rodimus’ and yet not, Megatron’s entire frame, in its unfamiliar shape, felt oddly weightless. Rodimus had made an effort to do this. For Megatron. It felt like they were standing in a forcefield bubble, suspended in time.

Before he knew it, the words had escaped him in a huff of defeat.

“Just this one night?”

This close, he could hear the quick shallow vent of pleased surprise. A small smile slowly curved the corner of the foreign faceplates before him. 

“Let’s say that.”

This time, when Rodimus gripped his hand and dove straight into the crowd, Megatron gathered himself and followed. 

_We can be anyone and anything. Just for this one night._

They bought small cubes of sweetened fuel and shared a box of magnesium-crusted rust sticks. Rodimus paid for several turns at a juvenile hoop-tossing game, and Megatron watched him flail and fail loudly and repeatedly with morbid fascination. Someone was playing a Tetrahexian synthesizer, its mournful notes amplified tinnily by an over-large speaker. Rodimus didn’t let go of him throughout, fingers winding securely with his as they moved from stall to stall, squeezing through the throngs. They stopped by the metal craftworks, admiring the finely woven designs that could be worn or magnetized to armor. Megatron’s optics lingered on a particularly clever piece, a perfect circle of intricately twisted links in a burnished copper. It would match Rodimus’ paint beautifully. 

Not that Megatron had ever been the sort of mech inclined to give _gifts_. 

“Would you look at that?” Rodimus gestured towards several mechs laughingly, pulling him forward. Five mechs - a pair and a trine - had gathered on an impromptu dance floor on the corner of the curb right by the Tetrahexian entertainer. The trine were whirling and chortling, completely out-of-tune with the music, while the pair swayed more suitably to the warbling melody, the larger mech encircling the smaller one so they were pressed chest to back, both intently enjoying the performance. The larger mech looked to be a driller, the boxiness of his frame and the dullness of his armor reminiscent of Megatron’s own original body, while the one in his arms had the definite markings of some sort of aquatic alt. Despite himself, Megatron couldn’t stop himself from staring at them.

Somehow, all his different paths had led here, to a dark corner on a Cybertron from a different universe. Here was another miner who could otherwise have lived his whole life underground, now listening to a classical song from Tetrahex out in the open and being free with his devotion for another mech that he would never have met in a different world. 

And Megatron had been a part of making that happen, on terms purely his own. 

For more than 800 years, he had healed others, put them back together instead of taking them apart. For every nameless Decepticon soldier who had marched by his throne and offlined unrecognized and unseen, he had learned someone else’s designation, tended to them as they gasped their hopes and dreams to him while he patched their lines and welded them back into functioning order.

This time, he hadn’t gone astray. 

This time - all of it - had not been a mistake. 

He realized the warmth around his hand had tightened; Rodimus was looking at him sideways, a lopsided smile on his face as if he had been privy to all of Megatron’s thoughts and to the tumult of emotions that now raced through him. 

Rodimus...hadn’t been a mistake either. 

“Will you _please_ stop looking so sad?” Rodimus asked softly, exasperated and shaky and affectionate. 

And then he surged forward and the pliant heated metal of his lips was suddenly against Megatron’s own, and Megatron found that his fingers, unbidden, were clutching Rodimus like a lifeline that he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go of. Rodimus pressed equally urgently back against him, having released Megatron’s hand to wrap both arms around him so tightly that Megatron’s borrowed chassis creaked. 

He could still taste the sweet fuel and the treats they had shared, light traces on that clever glossa that was deftly undoing all of the reservations howling in his helm. Rodimus’ field was heavy, blanketing him in its certainty of the rightness of things, and Megatron felt like he was drowning. 

He didn’t want this moment to end.

He didn’t want this _life_ to end.

Several whistles of appreciation finally broke them apart, with Rodimus gesturing a universal sign for ‘Frag off’ though the rudeness was fairly diminished by the wide grin of fierce joy on his faceplates. Megatron sagged, and had to lock his joints to stop himself from swaying. He should have been embarrassed - he wasn’t a new spark, to be throwing himself at another mech in such a public place, let alone kissing him where all and sundry could see. But all he felt was dazed.

When they had interfaced before, that unspoken something between them had been too new and raw for anything more than hardlining, which in itself had already been an awkward, messy, impulsive affair. A kiss was hardly more intimate than a spark-merge. And yet...

The wave of sorrow that abruptly swamped his processor _hurt_. This was all they would have. Stolen moments between an eternity of lost time. 

Rodimus was holding his hand again, dragging him down the street and away from the onlookers who’d been hooting and cheering them on. The turmoil in Megatron’s field must have been obvious because as soon as they reached a quieter area, Rodimus stopped, hesitating. Then he turned around and grabbed Megatron’s other hand, stepping closer so their noses were almost bumping.

“You know I don’t care even if this ends tomorrow, right?” Rodimus asked quietly. “What’s important to me is that we had today.”

Megatron’s intake felt tight. “You are going to say that about every single moment that we have remaining,” he retorted roughly. “You are going to take day after day after day like a fool, and then I’ll be gone and you will have nothing left. Don’t you understand?”

Rodimus shrugged, completely uncaring. “We all get to choose the things we want to suffer for. That’s the kind of world you worked for, Megs. It’d be a little hypocritical of you to choose for me now, huh?”

Why did Rodimus always have to make sense at the worst possible time? And how could he look into Megatron’s processor as if it was made of glass and see the thoughts tumbling there, messy and torturous and conflicted? It was infuriating. 

Because he was right. It wasn’t Megatron’s prerogative to decide for Rodimus.

And if he could be honest with himself about what _he_ wanted, the only thing that brought a scant comfort whenever he imagined the bitter end was the thought of Rodimus’ hand, open and outstretched. Squeezing Megatron’s own. Letting Megatron know that he was not alone at the point that his existence was extinguished - that he meant something to someone, something that wasn’t pain or death or destruction.

Only Rodimus looked at him and saw him for who he was now without any of the trappings of his long and storied past. And it wasn’t that he didn’t know who Megatron had been - Rodimus had personally found himself on the wrong end of that fusion cannon once, after all. But somehow, in his impossibly impetuous way, Rodimus managed to see _past_ all of that, to the mech that Megatron had become. Rodimus treated him as though there was simply nothing left to forgive, and nothing left to fear. 

It was so utterly freeing that it was terrifying.

“You’ll regret it,” he insisted in a last-ditch attempt that he knew he barely meant anymore. “I will take strength from you, but you will receive no such thing in return. You shouldn’t keep looking at me.” Still, he couldn’t bring himself to move away, standing there with his helm pressed to Rodimus’. He could hear it with his own audials - the guilty urgency and uncharacteristic desperation streaking his voice despite his best efforts to compose himself.

Rodimus smiled. His fingers gripped Megatron’s hands tighter. His optics blazed, blinding and blue. 

“I’ll look wherever the slag I want. Who do you think you are anyway, telling me what to do?” He leaned forward, and the next words were a whisper, ferocious and staggering in their meaning as they swirled in Megatron’s spark. “All you have to do is be with me, Megs. Just be with me. We can think about ‘later’ later. Okay?”

He yearned, heedlessly and suddenly, to fall. When was the last time he had trusted anyone to catch him?

The regret would come. The pain would be Pit to pay. But before he faded into that final darkness, perhaps...just perhaps...

He could be happy, for a time.

“Alright,” the word tore free from his vocalizer before he could stop himself, aching in its capitulation to such deeply-buried desire. Rodimus glowed, tremulous and determined, and it was impossible to look away, impossible to pretend that the waves of trepidation and exhilaration were not rising up in equal measure and consuming him, setting every line aflame. “Alright.”

And that was that.


End file.
